Raising North America
by StarrNight
Summary: When England and France laid claim to the New World and took on mentorship of the North American twins, they knew life was going to be more...challenging. They didn't, however, count on wild America and unpredictable Canada changing fate and laying their own claims to their mentors' hearts. After all, the only thing harder than raising countries is eventually letting them go.
1. The New World

_Hey there, folks! I'm really excited about this new project!_

_PLEASE NOTE: Please do NOT review or PM me complaining that you don't like the pairings or that you don't think it is historically accurate enough. I'm a biology major, not a history major and this is fiction. Hetalia itself is historically inaccurate. The dates/locations/etc are not going to be perfectly accurate and that's just the way it is._

_That being said, please enjoy!_

**Raising North America**

CHAPTER ONE: The New World

A strong wind swept over North America, rustling leaves and bending grasses into sleek, shiny plains. Cool air flowed down coastlines, stirred lakes, and wrapped itself around tree trunks in the gray shadows of ancient forests. Evening fell gracefully; layers of gradually deepening colors spread themselves over the land and settled comfortably in corners and crevices. Many eyes were upturned to see the serene blue of the sky explode into pinks, oranges, and deep reds, striking against the vivid green of the landscape. Most of the eyes belong to the animals; some did not. All were appreciative of the natural wonder, the Earth's goodnight.

Silence rose from the ground as the land grew darker and more still. Glowing orbs peered from between tree branches and under brambles; the nocturnal creatures' morning had come. As most of the world lay to rest, the animals of the night stirred and prepared for their doings in the dark. Stars winked into sight by the hundreds until the sky was thickly studded with lights, glimmering as they had done as long as the land could remember.

Separately, in places distant from each other, two small blonde heads, exhausted from a sunlit day of running through the fields of their homes, nestled into tufts of grass to sleep the night away. Their earthy beds were cheerless and chill from the wind, but considered to be comfortable, as the sleepers had nothing with which to compare them. The two children could remember neither from where they originated nor how long they had existed; only vague, hazy memories of many ages of moons and the constant promise of sunlight in the morning. They knew no change and expected none and so slept peacefully in the holy stillness of nature's song that had soothed them for so long.

Far away, to the East, the same wind was blowing ships across the Atlantic and towards the virgin land. The silence was almost over.

oOoOo

France, stepping off the gangplank and onto the sand of the New World, approved of what he saw. England, directing the crew to remove cargo from one of the ships, had no time to stop and admire the scenery. _What a waste of life,_ France thought to himself, watching the Englishman bustle about, checking lists and pointing men in different directions. _Life should be about beauty and the appreciation of it, not endless work._ He rolled up his sleeves to catch the sunlight on his arms. England, working hard, noticed that France was strolling about and humming to himself. _Stuck up old git,_ he thought, anger prickling the back of his neck. _He's never done an honest day's work in his life._ As was customary, however, the two smiled politely at each other in passing and said nothing.

Once satisfactorily unpacked, the group, consisting of France, England, Sweden, and Finland, set up a rudimentary camp and then turned towards the vastness that was the land beyond the beach. "Let's go in two groups of two and explore a bit to see what we can find. I'll go with Finland," England ordered. Finland was a very agreeable man, but mostly England wanted to avoid being in a group with his old rival, France. Whatever was in this land, England wanted to find and claim it before France had a chance.

Sweden, turning his back on France (who was bobbing his eyebrows up and down suggestively,) shook his head. "'M goin' with Finland," he said firmly.

Finland smiled apologetically at England, who cursed his luck. "V-very well then. Come on, Frog, and don't dilly-dally. Don't forget that we came here for a reason: to see what lay on this empty land! We shall meet back here at nightfall and report our findings." Resigned, the Englishman motioned to France and marched off, entering a copse of scrubby palm trees. France straightened the ruffle at the front of his coat and followed suit. The two picked through the underbrush, stepping around pools of escaped ocean water and avoiding some unlikely-looking creatures sunning themselves on rocks.

France wafted the air towards his face and sniffed appreciatively. "Ah, ze air here is so fresh! It smells like Bretagne after a heavy rain!" He made the mistake of closing his eyes and put his left foot into a muddy hole. Disgusted, he kicked about, trying to rid himself of the mess. "But ze ground is too wet. Reminds me of your home, Angleterre."

"Shut up, you," England said irritably, not bothering to turn around. "and try to be more quiet. You sound like a herd of bloody cattle tramping through the trees."

"Hmmph." France sniffed. The two walked on in silence. "Yes, I zink I shall name zis place 'New Renneso.' Some large artistic nudes would look splendid along a harbor on ze coastline…"

England growled in the back of his throat. "Stop talking about the land as if it's already yours," he groused.

"…most prominent of ze nudes will, of course, be modeled after me. After all, what is more beautiful zan love itself?" France ignored his companion's complaints entirely. "If you'd _ever_ let me do somezing about your _dreadful_ hair, Angleterre, I could fashion a statue after you as well! Of course, you'd 'ave to pose nude…"

"NO." England yelled. "Don't speak poppycock! Why are you so bent on having this land anyway? So far, I'm ruddy unimpressed; seems to be a load of mucky forest. And there's too many bloody insects!"

Ignoring his own discomfort from the bugs in favor of taunting his rival, France waved his hand dismissively. "You 'ave always been worthless at seeing ze natural beauty in anyzing. Take me, for example. You 'ave never been anyzing but nasty to me and I can't figure out why. Am I not ze most exquisite work of-"

He was cut off by a swift elbow in the gut from England. "Hush. Look!" Lost in his thoughts, France had missed the fact that the two had emerged from the forest into a magnificent glade. Green rolled out before them like a carpet, dotted here and there with fluffy yellow flowers, their petals open to receive the sunlight. Somewhere far off they could hear the slight burbling of a stream flowing towards the ocean and in the distance, white-capped mountains could be glimpsed. England stepped out of the shadow of the forest and breathed deeply. _Yes…I could find magic here_, he thought, taking off his jacket to better enjoy the warmth. A longing stirred in his gut and pleasurable goosebumps rose on his arms.

France came to stand alongside him, eyes glittering with greed. He draped an arm patronizingly around the shorter country and sighed deeply. "Now zis…zis is glorious. Ideal place for love. Yes, New Renneso is what I shall name it."

England shoved him away. "SHUT UP!"

oOoOo

Finland and Sweden were late returning to camp that afternoon. England had already started a small fire and was preparing to boil water for his usual evening tea when the two returned to camp, chattering excitedly. To be precise, Finland was chattering excitedly and the ever-stoic Sweden grunted agreement at appropriate times. "I think this could be huge!" Finland squealed. "Ah! England! France! You have got to hear the news!"

"What is it?"

Finland sat on a mat, settling in as if ready to spin a long yarn. "Sweden and I were walking sort of southwest of here, trying to find a break in the thick trees. We eventually discovered a patch where the trees were not so dense and, once we passed through them, we found ourselves in a wide open plain that seemed to extend for miles. There were mountains in the distance and tall grass and bushes everywhere. It was really very lovely. Anyway, we wandered about for a while and were getting ready to follow what looked like an animal trail when we heard rustling behind us. I whirled around and…well, guess what I saw!" He asked animatedly, drawing out his story and the attention he was receiving. When no one answered, he continued. "I saw a child!" Sweden nodded slowly beside him.

France and England gasped. "A child?"

"Yes! He was nearly invisible among the tall grasses, but he was there! When our eyes met, he fled, but I know I saw him!"

"_Mon Dieu,_" France breathed. "What did he look like? Are you sure it wasn't a pretty girl?"

Finland wrinkled his face, trying to remember. "I think it was a boy. He was dark blonde…or a very light brunette…he had blue eyes…and I think he was wearing a sort of nightie. Very cute." Again, Sweden nodded beside him.

"Did you see any signs of a nearby civilization? Spain could have gotten here before we did and colonized," England asked quickly, nervously.

Sweden shook his head silently and firmly. "No, we saw nothing of the type," Finland answered. "Absolutely nothing. No man-made traps, no human foot trails…listen…do you think this child could be…?"

England was confused, but France sat up straighter, his face lighting up. "Yes! He could! I had wondered if zere was anozzer one!"

"Another what?" It clicked. "Wait a bloody minute. Are you suggesting that this boy is one of us?" England looked from Finland to France. "That he's a country?"

"Yes! Really, what else could such a small, fragile child be doing wandering the land?" Finland deflated a little, freed from the weight of such an important secret. He reached for a bag of ruislepä near England's feet. "We should find him and see if he really is what we suspect he is. If so, we should help him. After all, one of us might be his big brother!"

France waved his hand, pooh-poohing Finland's words. "_S'il vous plaît_. 'e is obviously my little brozzer." He pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it up.

"How do you know?" Finland asked, puzzled.

"Because you said 'e was 'very cute.'" France blew smoke out of his nose. "I am very cute, 'e is very cute…'e must be related to me."

England flicked the cigarette out of France's fingers. "Oi! Don't claim things you haven't even seen yet!"

Vexed at the loss of his cigarette but determined not to show it, the Frenchman lit up another and turned away from England. "Fine, fine. You'll see. 'e is certainly not _your_ little brozzer, Angleterre."

"He could be _my_ little brother!" Finland volunteered quietly. No one paid him any attention. He sighed and took another bite of his ruislepä. _We'll figure it out tomorrow._

oOoOo

_Sorry if any part of this was incoherent…I just had surgery and am pretty zombified on pain medicine. Please tell me what you think!_


	2. America

_Hmmm…not as much interest as I'd expected but that's okay. This project is just as much for me as for you! Er…don't think that means you shouldn't review, though!_

CHAPTER TWO: America

The matter wasn't resolved the next day, nor the next. Instead, the exploration group decided to go looking for the child, resolving not to leave until they had located and assessed his condition. As charming as the idea originally seemed, four days of tramping through forests and fields looking for the mystery boy had started to take its toll on the group. France frowned at the increasingly shabby state of his coat and flicked off a beetle that had taken up residence on his sleeve. Fall was still in its early stages, but the leaves on many of the trees were turning colors; some vivid yellow and orange and others disappointing, dingy brown. The weather had held up well-sunshine every day and a slight breeze with a cool bite-but clouds had rolled in over the past few hours and rain seemed likely in the following day or two.

Finland was still just as enthusiastic (though more frustrated) in his quest as he had been from the first and Sweden followed stoically behind. England and France, however, were ready to be done with the whole thing. _They _hadn't seen any wayward kids and were beginning to suspect that their friend had been mistaken, made things up, or possibly both. Still they marched on, eyes casting about for any movement around them. "Maybe we should try calling for 'im," suggested France.

"Congratulations, Frog," England said sarcastically. "that's even more absurd than is usual for you."

"I'm just saying. It could work." France replied, affectedly wounded.

England rolled his eyes. "He's not a dog." All the same, he couldn't get the idea out of his head and so walked several steps away from the group. He looked awkwardly around himself to make sure the others were out of earshot, then whistled softly. "Hey, kid, are you around here?" As he spoke, he looked guiltily back to where France was standing. His attention was brought back when he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. He slowly turned his head back and gasped. A blonde boy's head had popped up from a thick tuft of weeds.

Hovering somewhere between irritation and amazement that the whistling had worked, England smiled at the boy, who, after a moment's hesitation, grinned back. A certain aesthetic fondness for the child blossomed inside the Englishman's heart and he took a step forward, reaching his hand out. The boy's smile disappeared and so did he, running into deeper shrubbery and out of view. _Drat!_ England snapped his fingers and motioned to his three companions. "Oi! I saw him! He was over here!"

The others waded through the grasses to stand beside England and gawk in the direction he was pointing. "Did he say anything? What was he doing?" Finland and France fired questions at him as fast as they could think them up.

England shrugged. "He was just standing here in this grass. He didn't say a word, he just…he smiled at me." France glared at him as he said this. _I see that Angleterre intends to find this boy and keep him from the rest of us. I'll just have to find him first_. England noticed his look and glared back. _This fool intends to corrupt that nice child with his debauchery. I won't let that happen!_ Finland smiled at both of them encouragingly. _Oh, I'm so glad we spotted him again. I can't wait to find out his name._ Sweden stood stolidly, peering across the plain. If he had thoughts, he kept them well to himself.

oOoOo

Sitting by the snapping fire, cup of tea in hand, England could not banish the child from his head. The nights were growing colder and somewhere out there he knew the little boy was curled up on the earth, definitely chilly and possibly hungry. He sat up and snapped his fingers, causing the others to take notice. "Y'know…I'd wager that boy would right fancy a home-cooked meal."

France took a long drag of his cigarette. "You're probably right. I'll make him some Potate Sarladaise when we bring him in."

"No," England said quickly. "I was thinking _I'd_ cook for him."

Finland and Sweden stirred uncomfortably. France spluttered on his own smoke. "What? Angleterre, I knew you were, shall we say, _antisocial_, but zis is really too much. Why do you hate zat poor child so much?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You've seen zis boy once and already you plan to murder him?"

"What the devil are…" England realized that this was a joke about his cooking and so snapped his mouth shut and turned away, huffing, to curl up in his blankets. France, chuckling, finished his smoke and laid back for his beauty sleep.

Finland sighed and threw a stick on the fire. He looked over at Sweden, who was stargazing, and sighed again. "Say, guys, how about we take the day off tomorrow and rest? I'd like a break from the stress." No one replied, so he took the silence to mean approval. "Wonderful. Great talk, guys!"

oOoOo

After breakfast the next morning, England announced that he was going to go find a stream in which to take a bath. "Good," France said approvingly. "You stink." After shooting the Frenchman a withering look, England donned a cloak and left the campsite. He was not, of course, going to bathe; he found his way back to the clearing from the day before and began to whistle, calling out softly. A few minutes in, he was rewarded by a soft whistle back.

The boy popped out of a clump of bushes and giggled. He whistled a little again (very badly) and laughed. England walked to the center of the clearing and sat down. "Hullo there," he said after a bit, rather awkwardly. The child just looked at him. "I won't harm you," England continued, wondering how on earth to get the thing to come closer to him. He searched his pockets and found nothing in them except a scone from earlier and some string. Choosing the object more likely to find favor, he pulled the string out, tied the ends together, and tried to remember how to do tricks like Cat's Cradle and Jacob's Ladder. Intrigued, the boy inched closer. Finally frustrated after half an hour, England stuck the string back in his pocket and sighed. _The nipper won't want this, but I fancy a snack._ He then took out the scone and bit into it. Instantly the boy was at his side, eyes wide and staring at the scone. "Oh ho, so that's your poison, is it now? Food? Well, I daresay you haven't had too much to eat on your own."

He split the scone in two and gave half to the child, who eagerly crammed as much of it in his mouth as he could, then beamed under the ecstatically happy look of England. _This child MUST be my little brother! No one else has EVER enjoyed my scones as much as I do! _After chewing and swallowing, the boy smiled. "What's your name?" He asked in a happy childish voice.

Surprised to hear him speak, England gave a start and then cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Erm, well, I'm the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland." The child stared at him. He hastily continued, "b-but more important than that is the fact that I'm your new big brother! What do you think about that, now?" He puffed out his chest and tried to look important.

"Big brother?"

"Indeed. Well, you probably don't know what a brother is, do you? No education and all…see here, a brother is someone who takes care of you and loves you and does what's best for you." As he said these things, painful images of his own brothers, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, rose up in his mind. They had always been horrid to him, throwing dirt and stones at him and jeering, calling him nasty names. And then there was France, who called himself everyone's big brother and then lewdly seduced the same countries in the next breath. Were these what brothers really were? Nasty, rotten things, they seemed. The child looked up, confused by how red England's face had become. England returned the glance, looking into the child's eyes, and twitched. Something inside of him had softened at the look of those big, innocent eyes. He could never do to this boy what his brothers had done to him…could he? "Most people call me England. You can, also."

"Okay! Engwand!" The boy stood up and skipped about. "I'm America!"

"America? Why that's a lovely name." England watched fondly as America ran around, arms outstretched.

oOoOo

France was (rather understandably) put out when England returned late that night from his "bath" and announced that he officially claimed America as his charge. "What? You talked to him wizzout us present? Zat is cheating! You can't do zat!"

"I can and I did," England replied, scowling as hard as his bushy eyebrows would let him scowl (which was very impressive.) "His name is America and he is mine."

"Says who?" France shouted.

"Says me, that's who bloody says so!" England shouted back. "Besides, he ate one of my scones and he ate it with RELISH! That's right, you old frog, he liked it!"

"Zat's because he's been eating tree bark his whole life!"

England did not have much of a reply to that because it was probably right. Determined not to lose ground, however, he thumbed his nose to France and sat down by the fire. France considered throwing a baguette or two at him, but decided it wasn't worth wasting such tasty food. Finland stood up quietly. "I have an idea. Let's go back tomorrow and see who the boy wants as his guardian. We can each have a shot, hey?" Both England and France nodded assent and Finland sat down again, happy with his peace-making abilities.

Sleep evaded England that night because he was so worried about whether or not America was safe on his own out in the wilderness. He had briefly considered bringing him home to the campsite, but nixed the idea because he had no assurance France would not do something dreadful during the night. He pulled his blankets closer and felt a pang inside. He wasn't used to caring about someone this much. It was a unique experience.

oOoOo

True to the plan, Finland, England, and France made their way out to the clearing the next morning. Sweden stayed behind because he didn't care and also because if Finland got the child, he would inadvertently receive co-guardianship. England, still glaring at France, knelt down and called out, "America! Hullo? Are you here?"

It took a few minutes, but America eventually appeared, bobbing along in the grass. "Hmm, he looks bigger zan he did ze ozzer day," France noticed, peering at the boy closely. "And look, he has my eyes! He IS my little brozzer!"

"Oh, bah, he has MY straight hair! So his eyes are bloody blue, so what!" England pointed at the boy's locks.

"Wrong! I zink he has ze makings of a fine gentleman, which you do NOT."

England snorted. "Oh, how wrong you are. He's clearly a scamp and a scallywag. More like MY blood than yours."

America looked back and forth between the two, his face wrinkling with worry at the two's raised vocal tones. Finland, still studying him, turned to his companions. "Say, fellows, what part of him looks like me?"

England and France took a good hard look comparing Finland and America and swallowed hard. The similarity between the two was uncomfortably striking. All the fighting was likely for nothing…Finland was almost _certainly_ the real guardian if it was solely based on looks. The two exchanged furtive looks, then straightened up and cleared their throats. "Er, nothing. Nothing at all," England said hoarsely, refusing to meet Finland's eyes.

"But remember, Finlande, It is more important zat someone resembles you in _personality_ razzer zan just in _appearance_…after all, it is all about love! Depth of love!" France said with a cheesy smile and a conciliatory pat on the back.

The Nordic nation was visibly disappointed. "Gosh…I thought we looked at least a _tiny_ bit alike…well, I guess that's alright." He stood around for a second until he recovered himself, then shook his head to clear it. "Anyway, let's figure out his guardianship. Everyone take ten steps back from him. On three we'll all call his name. Whoever he goes to first is his new, legal guardian. Fair?"

"I suppose." England replied.

France laughed a low, sneaky laugh. "Hon, hon, hon."

The three did what Finland said, after asking America politely to remain where he was for the moment, then squatted. France was on the left, Finland in the middle, and England to the right. America sat, playing with daisies in the grass. Finland counted loudly to three, then the grown countries each called out to America. America stood up and looked wildly between the three, dropping his daisies in his surprise. He vacillated for a bit, then started to walk to England, the only one of the three he knew. England gasped with delight. "Smashing! Come, come, come to me, America, and together we shall unlock the door to the land of mystery and danger! Fu fu fu!" America stopped short and wailed, disturbed by the creepy aura surrounding the Englishman as he said such things.

"SACRE BLEU, Angleterre, stop mumbling such creepy nonsense! Even I feel like crying!" As he complained, France rustled around in a rucksack he'd brought along and pulled out a plate filled with Garbure and fried potatoes. "_Non, mon ami_, come to Big Brother France and taste the finest cuisine!" The smell wafted along the plain and America backed up, then turned to see the food. _NO!_ England wailed in his mind, watching the boy change directions and head towards the food and France. _Quick! Think! Do I have anything that could rival that food?_ He mentally went through the catalogue of British hairstyles, fashion, cuisine, and history and failed to come up with a single suggestion.

Realizing his impending defeat, England collapsed on the ground, pulling his knees into his chest and putting his head on them. What France had done was low, sure, but not against the rules. Anger and shame burned in his chest and he clenched his fists. _Defeated again! And this…this was the one thing I've ever TRULY wanted._ Unbidden, tears slipped down his cheek and he sobbed quietly and unashamedly.

A tiny hand was laid on his arm. He looked up to see America's big blue eyes peering at him with concern and France having a silent conniption in the background. "Engwand…are you okay?" England stared, then opened his arms and allowed the child into them. _I…I won! _He hugged the boy close and buried his face in his hair.

"Ai! I have been rejected," France muttered, calming down. "Zat is…zat will have to be okay. I can do better zan zis place anyway, _non_? Of course!" He left the food on the ground, stuck his hands in his pockets and headed back to camp, following the also-defeated Finland.

England let the boy run around for a bit while he collected himself, then swung the child up in his arms to carry him back to camp. _This boy…is in my care now. His care is a lot of responsibility for me now and I shall have to work harder than ever! He needs to be given all I can give…I don't have any money…but I feel that we can work together and support each other. _He looked down at the boy's face. _I feel like…this is my destiny, somehow. There's something about this rascal. His life isn't going to be easy…I'll just have to help him meet and overcome all the obstacles that will stand in his way._

"Engwand, are you reawwy my big brother now? For reawwy reaw?"

Warmth surged through England and he looked away. "Yes. Yes, I am." He thought for a bit. "Listen. I want you to call me by my human name…it's what countries do when they are very close to each other. I'm Arthur. Arthur Kirkland."

"I'm Awfred," America replied after a moment. "I wike your name, Arthur."

"I like yours, too, Alfred." He hoisted the child up further in his arms and kept walking. Of course, the peace didn't last long. "I beg your pardon? You feel ill? You didn't eat any of the frog-er, I mean France's food, did you? You did? That trash is too rich for you! You ought not eat nonsense like that until your tummy is used to real food! Well, can't be helped, I suppose. Hold on and you can have a kip on my bed back at camp. Tomorrow we'll work on finding a homestead just for you and I, what say you? Splendid. OI! What do you think you're doing? DON'T THROW UP ON MY JACKET, IT WAS MADE IN LONDON AND VERY EXPENSI-OH BLOODY HELL! No, don't worry about it…I'll have it cleaned…"

And thus England gained guardianship of America and also more troubles than he'd ever counted on.

oOoOo

_Still on pain meds…this surgery is very slow healing._


	3. France's Tale

_Hello! Finally the story can really take off now that all the preliminary groundwork is laid. Enjoy!_

CHAPTER THREE: France's Tale

True to his words, England took America and many of his men from the sea voyage, left camp the next day and traveled a few days westward into the land until they found a small, sunny field with good drainage and a seemingly promise for good weather. There was a pond about a mile to the east and shallow forest all about. England built a temporary camp for the men and the two of them, then set about building a lovely little house in that field, one that America could live in when he was gone. "Look, Alfred! This room right here," England held the blueprints in front of his tiny charge and pointed to a cluster of lines. "that's going to be your room! And mine shall be just down the hall, ah…here! You see?" With the help of his men working from dawn until dusk every day, England finished the small house in just under two months, which was close to perfect because winter had begun to settle in and campfires just were not enough sometimes to ward off the cold of the New World. The men left to return to their families after wishing England a farewell and good luck (they secretly thought he was going to need it.)

Though important matters back at his home were pressing on his mind, England resolved to stay himself with America until certain luxuries such as furniture, carpet, books, and staples like tea and flour were sent from his house to America's. In the meantime, he spent much time carving America and himself bed frames. "You may be but a wee one now, Alfred, but you're certainly growing quickly and you'll appreciate someday how big this bed is when your legs are longer." he told the boy when his bed was finished. He also took America for long walks and talked to him about history, biology, and general knowledge. The boy did not know how to count or how to read, and certainly not how to speak (at least to England's standards, though, to be honest, he never mastered that skill.)

America himself grew much that winter, faster than England expected. Though he met his mentor as a toddler, he was physically five or six years old by the time the snow had stopped piling up against the door and the new year had come. He helped England put down corners of the carpeting and sweep out the rooms with wooden floors. Working with his hands excited him and he was far more eager to participate in active pastimes than pursuits of the mind like reading or listening to England lecture, something he was too often given to do.

From the very first night, America refused to stay in his bed. "It's too big, Arthur. I don't like it."

"Oh, you'll learn to like it. Now get in and don't fuss." America balked, then climbed under the covers and fairly disappeared amid the pillows and blankets. He watched England leave the room, his eyes big and resentful. Once the lamp was turned off, he sighed and tried to get used to the space. It was no use. He felt like a tiny fish in a giant lake, a bird in a vast cloudless sky. The walls creaked. The floors squeaked. Something tapped against the window. A monster? A ghost?

England had blown out his own light and curled up in his own bed, ready to drift off, when the door squeaked open and then closed again. He cracked an eye and watched his colony climb up on top of the quilt. "Arthur…are you sleeping?"

"No. How can I when you're bloody talking to me?"

"I'm scared. I think there's a monster outside my window."

"There is no such thing. The most it is likely to be is a troll or a fairy and even that is highly doubtful because, as you know, it is snowing. Trolls don't fancy the snow."

America made a face as he always did when England started talking about weird things. "I'm still scared. Can…can I sleep with you, Arthur?"

England opened both his eyes now and looked at America. "What? No, don't be a dolt."

"Please? Pleasy-please?" Already America was worming his way under the covers and next to his mentor.

"Ooh, you're not going to give me a choice, are you? I said no! Oh, Fine," England sighed. "You can stay. But just for tonight!" America cheered and snuggled close to him, cuddling in the shared warmth. England tried to give him a stern look but failed because his heart wasn't in it.

Despite England's stipulation, America didn't sleep in his own bed again until England left.

oOoOo

When the snow melted, England knew he could stay no longer and sat America down to break the news to him. "Listen, Alfie, I'm so glad I was able to spend the winter with you. Truly."

America's eyes sparkled. "Yeah, man, we had so much fun! When I'm older will you take me skating on that pond? And maybe we can hunt frogs when it gets hot!"

"I think we can manage that!" England laughed along with the boy, then sobered. "First, however, I need to go home for a little while."

"Home? What do you mean? Isn't this your home?"

"Well, no, no it isn't. My home is across the ocean-in Europe, you see."

"Oh. Well then, take me with you!"

England sighed. "You don't fully understand yet. I'm a country, just like you, well, sort of, and sometimes we have to take care of business in our own homes. You can't come with me yet."

"Why not?"

"Because you need to grow up here, in your own home, and develop yourself first, that's why! Make some friends! Bimble about! Meet the people who live in your land! This land belongs to you, though you ARE my colony, don't forget."

"So…you're leaving me?"

England straightened up. "I'm afraid so, but it will only be for a little while. Don't fret."

"Who will tuck me in?"

"You'll have to learn to take care of yourself, Alfred."

"No!" America sprang to his feet and stomped his chubby childish legs. "I don't want you to go, Arthur! I'll…I'll miss you too much!" Water rolled down his cheeks and he clenched his fists, scrubbing the tears away.

The Brit was taken aback by how much emotion America could display. What could he say? "I…I'll come back! Honest."

"Soon?"

"As soon as I can." England said, not actually knowing when he would be able to come back but already resolving to work faster at home. "I'll always come back when I say I will."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

oOoOo

All of England's assurances could not stop America from crying when the boat back to Europe was packed and boarded. The Brit waved over the railing at the boy and called out felicitations, but felt his own spirit deflating as he sailed out of the harbor and slowly lost sight of the small boy. _Oh, he'll be fine. I don't know quite what I'm worrying about. I'll just get my work finished in a tidy fashion and then be back to check on him! It's a fine plan. _He leaned against the railing and stared at the other passengers on the ship. _I need a cup of tea._

The cold damp of home was comforting and slightly disappointing after the long sunny days in the New World. A fine layer of dust had settled on all of England's belongings. He ran his fingers dispassionately over some china baubles and frowned at the fluff that had aggregated on his fingertips. A strong cup of tea mixed with gin cheered him greatly and he lit all the lamps, turning the house into a much merrier place.

Work consumed him for months and he rushed from place to place, talking to various leaders and filling out stacks of paperwork. At first, he worried about America constantly in the back of his mind while he traveled and performed mundane tasks, but the thought of the boy gradually faded as time passed. After all, the child was sure to be doing better than England _himself_ was doing, never having a second to breathe. France was the one to remind England that he needed to eventually go back and check on him. Spring had blended into summer (not that it made too much of a difference at England's house), work had slowed down for a week and, curious as to how France had ended up, England had agreed to meet with his rival for brunch.

A small outside café on the border of Belgium was the place the two had decided to rendezvous. "Ah! Angleterre! Zis is delightful. Simply delightful." France approached the table at which England sat, his arms spread wide open. "I agree wiz your decision to choose a Belgian bistro. For a moment I was worried I 'ad made ze wrong decision in allowing you to select ze eating establishment. I zought zat you might make me choke somezing down at an English diner."

England took a drink of tea to quell the irritation rising. "I happen to favor the scenery here as well as the fresh cream they pour on the fruit."

"Hmmm." France made noise in lieu of answering. He ordered a glass of wine and a tomate-crevette, then turned his attention to the other man. "So. 'ow is ze little Amerique?"

"I don't know for sure, but I make the assumption that he is fine and dandy," England replied, surprised at the ease with which his jilted rival mentioned the touchy subject. "I hope he is reading the books I left for him. Not ruddy likely, though."

"But 'e 'as a place to live now?"

"Yes, of course."

"When did you leave for Europe again?"

England was fast becoming suspicious of France. "I left at the end of winter if it is any business of yours. Nigh on five months ago."

"Ah! So you'll be going back soon?"

"Why, no, I hadn't planned on it. Good heavens, it's only been half a year. What mischief can he pull himself into in that time?"

France repositioned himself in the chair. "It is not about policing 'im, Angleterre, it is about being zere for 'im. Besides…zey are so cute when zey are zis age…" His eyes went all starry and he drooled a bit. "You have to savor the moments when zey are young and innocent! When were you planning on returning?"

By now, France's interrogation had thoroughly put England in a bad mood and he rolled his eyes. "Oh, I don't know…next summer? I hadn't thought you to be so concerned about what I do with my own colonies."

"_Mon Dieu!_ You would leave 'im alone for zat long? Chie!" He looked off into the distance. "You are going to 'ave problems wiz 'im."

"That's it! Stop banging on about how to be a bleeding big brother! I think I happen to be doing an ace job of it! Besides, the last time I checked, you didn't even _have_ a little brother. I dunno where you get the prerogative to come preach to me."

France slapped the table, startling England. "How silly I am! Oh, my beauty is sometimes too much to 'andle and I forget ze simplest zings! I 'ave not told you yet!"  
"Told me what?"

"I 'avent told you about Canada! My _petit_ Matthieu!"

"Who?"

"My little brozzer!" France sat back and sipped wine, smiling as he thought. "'e is a most splendid child. If I were not my own pride and joy, 'e would certainly be it."

England's mouth wagged open. "Blimey…when did this happen? Is he a country? Where?"

"Of course 'e is a country. Canada is located right to the north of Amerique. As a matter of fact," he said, a wry smile playing about his lips, "'e is your Amerique's twin brozzer." He sat a minute to let England absorb this fact. "It is a zrilling tale. I shall tell you straightaway."

England began a weak protest, then stopped because he was, after all, very curious. This unlikely tale was a scam, no doubt. But if it was true, France had just become, for all intents and purposes, America's and his own neighbor to the north. This could be bad. What was this new boy like, anyway? "Fine. But be sharpish; I haven't got all day to listen to slobberchops like yourself."

France made himself comfortable, lighting a cigarette and swirling his wine. "_Oui_. You see, after I was so cruelly cheated by you on ze guardianship of Amerique (crying is foul cheating and you know it, Angleterre, you mutt) and you left wiz 'im, I also left camp and wandered aimlessly northwards along ze coastline. I wanted to see all zat I could of Amerique's land before you banned me from it as you will no doubt do. Ze landscapes were _magnifique_! I could paint zem and hang zem in my hallway! Alas, but ze weazzer just got more and more Baltic the more north I traveled! I tried going inland to escape ze sea winds. It worked but very little. Zen, after days of walking, I passed ze most enormous waterfall! Ze water is so clear…I could see my beautiful face in it. I would tell you to go see it for yourself, but I 'ave claimed it for Canada. Also, why would anyone (yourself included) want to see your face more zan necessary? Anyway, I passed ze waterfall and just knew I 'ad crossed a line into someplace new. It just felt different; what can I say?

"I did not know it zen, but I had entered little Canada's 'ome. 'ow to describe 'is land? It is like Amerique's…except full of silent beauty and grace! Ze difference is love. Love can grow around Canada. Love is stunted and distracted around Amerique (wiz you as a brozzer, I can easily see 'ow) and I no longer envy you zat luscious and loveless land. It is like a garden full of dirt and bees but no flowers. Zere are no bees in Canada and flowers are not confined to dirt…zey grow out of pure romance!"

"Get on with the story, frog," England said, annoyed.

France held up a hand. "Quite right, my apologies. Once I passed into zis magical land, I felt a presence, a pure presence. I knew right away zat zere was anozzer country zere and I could not rest until I had found 'im or 'er. I searched and searched for weeks, tired, frustrated, and cold. Where was zis clean spirit? I was running low on wine! Surely I must find ze country soon or return to my 'ome for supplies, risking you finding zis land and abandoning your brat for it!"

"Oi! America is not a brat! And I wouldn't abandon him!"

"And zen one day…I found 'im! 'e was sunning himself on a rock shelf! Ze cutest little boy you 'ave ever imagined. Long blonde 'air so like my own…round sky blue eyes…and 'is curl! Oh, what a darling curl 'e 'as at ze front of 'is 'air. Obviously 'e is Amerique's twin…zey look far too alike…but zey could not be more different in personalities. 'e looked at me and said: 'I 'ave been waiting for you, Big Brozzer! Teach me 'ow to be a gentleman!' Ah! Unlike your wayward child, zere was no question who Canada was meant for! I immediately took 'im wiz me, built 'im a 'ouse, and started to teach 'im ze ways of life." He took a deep breath and a drink of wine. "Now I am 'ere to see about business at my 'ouse and to restock on essentials to take back to 'im."

Now, France's story, while interesting, was almost entirely false. He had indeed crossed into, met, and adopted Canada, but not nearly in the suave manner of which he spoke. England, however, did not know this, and immediately felt rather boorish about the way he won guardianship of America. France's tale of finding magical children on rocks was far-fetched but plausible. Magic existed. Why not in Canada, also? All together, the Brit was at a loss as to what he should say. "Well. Er, congratulations on your…who was it again? Right, Canada. Perhaps…perhaps the two could get together sometime and…I dunno…swing the lead a bit? 'Specially if they're brothers and all."

"I approve of zis plan. I zink Canada could be a very good influence on Amerique. Maybe on you too." France chuckled. "I am going back in zree weeks' time. I invite you to come wiz me and meet my Canada. Let us see what ze two boys make of each ozzer."

England drained his glass and picked at the food on his plate. He really wasn't in the mood to travel again so soon…it messed with his digestive tract something terrible. In the end, France talked him into it by saying it how nice it would be to compare the two and how he was sure to find Canada superior in every way. "If I go, will you sod off about Alfred? Cor blimey!"

France just grinned.

oOoOo

_Silly France, making up fancy stories to impress England! Please review!_


	4. Canada, in Reality

_Hooray! More FACE goodness!_

_Please enjoy!_

CHAPTER FOUR: Canada, in Reality

"Now, don't ask Canada any questions about 'ow we first met. 'e is very sensitive about zat time and gets very emotional," France warned England weeks later as they stood at the helm of a ship, watching the New World's coastline come ever closer. "As a matter of fact, 'e is so sensitive zat 'e might lie. You know how children are." France tried to laugh off his words, but was secretly nervous that Canada might inadvertently tell England the REAL story about how they had met, one that was much less glamorous than the version that he'd told England back in Europe.

The truth was, far from being found sunning on a ledge, Canada saved France from his own idiocy and became stuck with him that way. France DID travel north after England departed with America, but was distracted by a beautiful, quick-moving river in which he decided to bathe in the nude. He saw no harm in allowing the current to carry him downstream, ignoring a roar that grew louder and louder until he finally looked about himself and realized he was close to going over a monstrous waterfall-Niagara Falls. Frantically, he flailed and paddled from rock to rock until he reached the shore and threw himself on the rocky sand of the tiny riverside beach. Now naked, he traveled along the river, looking for his cast-off clothes, rucksack, and cigarettes. He didn't find them and was forced to camp for several nights covered only in what leaves and tree branches he could find, as he was bereft of all but his censoring rose. Realizing his predicament, he decided to make for the coast and follow it back to camp, but was distracted by the appearance of an animal he'd never seen before. It was a great beast, four-legged, long-nosed, and covered in brown, shaggy fur. The most magnificent part about it were the horns! Atop its head grew two massive horns, like deer's antlers but on a much more grand scale. The mysterious creature was far too exciting. France had to pursue it. French love must be spread across all continents, to all countries and to all fantastic beasts!

Unfortunately for France, the monstrous creature did not like being pursued and was not scared in the slightest of the small pink man chasing it. As France approached, it lowered its unusual horned head in preparation for a charge. _Ah! It is like a kind mythical monster! It is lowering its head so that I may pet it!_ He skipped merrily towards the beast, then screeched and backtracked as it barreled towards him. "_MON DIEU! NON!_" He screamed, jumping over logs and dodging trees, censoring rose flapping in the wind. "I AM BUT A SIMPLE FRENCHMAN TRYING TO SPREAD LOVE! WHY DO YOU NOT ACCEPT MY LOVE? DO NOT EAT MEEE!"

After what must have been a mile or more of running, the moose (for a moose it was) decided that the pink creature was not a threat, snorted, and abandoned the chase. France, terrified, continued to babble and run for another half mile, then collapsed on the forest floor where he lay for an hour. The combination of heavy sweating combined with nudity combined with increasingly crisp fall nights left France shivering under the trees. _This land is so harsh! Much worse than Amerique's land. I must have crossed over into a new, undiscovered place! No one will know where to find me! No one will know where to look! If I don't find my way back to camp, this may be the end of love as the world knows it!_ France's melodrama was not well-founded as he was a country and not likely to die from simply being cold. Even so, he was most uncomfortable and that was, to him, just as bad as death itself. _I would kiss that shaggy monster for some wine right now. _Though if France was honest with himself, he would probably kiss the moose regardless.

He awoke to an uneasy feeling. Eyes still closed, he could hear leaves rustling and twigs snapping from somewhere nearby. Doing his best to stay still, he cracked an eye open and saw, to his surprise, a young boy near him, using a curved stick to bat around a round ball. The boy stopped and stared as France sat up and rubbed his eyes. "_Bonjour_, young one," France cooed, trying to apply charm. The boy tilted his head upon hearing the stranger's silken voice. "I am France. Tell me, is your name as cute as you are?" The child looked much like America in the face, but was more androgynous with longer, somewhat matted hair and pouty, slightly cupid-bowed lips. His eyes were also darker in color. A long, curled hair drooped over his head and hung to the side of his face.

He quavered, then stuck his finger in his mouth and said softly, "I'm Canada."

"Ah, Canada! I am charmed to make your acquaintance."

"Why are you naked?" Canada asked, gawking.

France chuckled. "Zat is an excellent question and zere is an excellent answer. I was…bazing in ze river and I…misplaced my clothes." He flicked some earth off his chest. "Luckily for me, I retained my rose."

"I found some big person clothes the other day…"

"Really? Are zey mine? Bah! I don't even care if zey are mine are not! Oh, Canada, you are like a cherub sent from ze 'eavens above!" He jumped up and tried to hug him, but Canada looked so close to fainting at the thought of physical contact that he stopped. "You must be shy," he said, laughing. "Maybe I can zank you properly when I'm dressed. Personally, I zink gratitude is best expressed nude but…zat's fine too."

France got his clothes back and stuck with his new young friend, learning about the unique animals and plants in Canada's land. He quickly became quite fond of the timid boy, but (for the first time in his life) respected his shyness and personal space. Though he was extremely reserved at first, Canada opened up more and more to France the longer he spent with him. One night, sitting by a fire, Canada asked about France's other country friends. France pondered the question. "Well, you see, ze world is a large place. Zere are many, many countries and zey are all madly in love wiz me. I don't 'ave time to describe zem all to you." Canada then suggested that France just tell him about his best friend. "Ze entire world fights to be my best friend! But...if I had to say someone...I guess ze person I seem to spend ze most time wiz is Angleterre."

"What's he like?" Canada had never had a human or country best friend before. The idea was mystifying and achingly beautiful. Up until now, the only other creature he had ever cared for was a small polar bear cub named Kumajirou, who had been growing up alongside him and was rarely parted from him.

"'e's ridiculous. He's stubborn, crass, and foul-mouthed and he never came to any of my dinner parties."

Canada was confused. "And he's your best friend?"

"No. We 'ate each ozzer; 'e's a despicable rosbiff." Canada stared at him. "And yet...zere is somezing about him...I can't explain it. Oh, look, I have a picture that someone took at a meeting we went to." Canada reached out for the photo and looked at it. He looked at it for so long that France got suspicious. "'ere, why are you so intent on zat picture? Are you DROOLING? Give zat back!"

Canada handed it back. _Hon hon hon!_

France ogled him. Did he just…? Could it be? And like that, the French man knew he had found his true, perverted little brother.

From there, he sent word back to his home and had materials and men sent over so he could build Canada a house. Aside from how much he was learning to love the mini-me he'd found, he was also excited that he could go back to Europe and shove his little brother in England's face. It had really wounded France's pride when he lost America, but this new turn of fortune had repaired his ego.

Facts being what they were, France was most decided that England should not find out that he had lied. For the moment, anyway, England dropped the subject of Canada and focused on seeing his own young charge again. Many of the European countries, his brothers in particular, had been making fun of he and his solitary ways again. He grimaced, remembering the moniker Scotland had given him: Monty-No-Mate. These people…England had never fit in with them, or anywhere, really. Looking out over the ocean waters, he felt a pang of loss and realized that he missed his wild days as a pirate, sailing the open sea and feeling the fear of all his enemies, especially that presumptuous Spain. It made him feel strong. Above all else he had always wanted to be strong. But he was a gentleman now and had America to take care of…there was no reason to dredge up old memories and pine over them. He hoped America at least would be glad to see him, but his pessimistic side haunted him with doubts.

Upon disembarking from the ship, the two men were surprised to find two boys, older than the ones they had left, waiting for them on the shore. The two cast shy glances at each other across the sand, too awkward to say anything until their mentors had arrived. America began waving wildly as soon as he saw England step onto the sand, then ran and tackled him. "Blimey! When did you get so big?" England laughed, catching the lad and swinging him around in the air.

"Arthur, Arthur! I'm so glad you came back! I've really missed you!" America squeezed his neck. "Guess what? I made a whole mud fort! It's wicked cool! Can I show you? Can I? Can I? Huh?"

England laughed again, a hearty laugh that shook and surprised even himself. "Why, yes, of course, my boy. You must show me all the fun twaddle you've been up to while I've been away." He set the still-chattering child down. _How old is he now…? Eight?_ The change from timid, clingy youngling to energetic, affectionate lad was both charming and disconcerting. Looking in America's eyes, England felt the worries of home slip into the edges of his mind, replaced by something warm, glowy, and unfamiliar. Despite his earlier misgivings, he was glad France had coerced him into returning to see America. Strange as it was…it felt…good to be valued. Even stranger…it felt tremendous to value someone else just as much. God, he was turning into a sap.

Meanwhile, Canada hid his face in Kumajirou's fur, embarrassed by how happy he was to see his guardian. "H-hello, Francis," he said, glowing red. "I was wondering when you'd come back and see me."

"It's 'ard to leave somezing so cute alone for long!" France replied, winking at him. "Look, I brought you some crepes from my 'ome!" He pulled a package from his coat pocket and presented it to Canada, who stuttered out a delighted thank-you. "Now come, zere is someone I would like you to meet. Just remember what I was telling you when I was 'ere last…no matter how attractive you zink someone is, it is considered socially unacceptable to grope zem in public! I've only done it once (a lie) and, alzough ze person liked it (also a lie) and told me zat I was ze most handsome man zey had ever seen (yet another lie), ze world council made a rule against it." This was the only part of his speech that was true. The world council HAD made a rule against groping people in public, but only because France had been making a world tour and was trying to "spread love" to every country in existence, usually by grabbing their buttocks. Canada, not knowing any of this, nodded solemnly.

France and England approached each other, each holding tightly the hands of their little brothers. Both were proud of their own and were determined to shame the other by having their little brother make the other jealous. America and Canada, who were oblivious to their big brothers' ulterior motives, were merely curious. "Hey! I remember you! You were there when England became my big brother!" America yelled, pointing at France. "Your food was really good but it made me throw up! I don't want to eat it ever again 'cuz I don't like getting sick!"

"That's my boy," England said fondly, patting America's head and leering at France.

"Yeah, you didn't like it when I threw up all over you." America added. England's smirk dropped and France laughed raucously.

"You can 'ave whatever you like, as long as you promise to repeat ze performance," France said, still laughing. He then sobered. "Amerique, Angleterre, zis is Canada. Canada, zis is Angleterre and Amerique."

Canada hid himself in the folds of France's clothes, but peeked out and waved shyly. "H-hello. It's n-nice to meet—"

"WHOAH!" America yelled, cutting Canada's words off. "You look just like me except your hair's all funny! Lookit, Arthur, he looks like me! Can you climb trees? I love climbing trees! Really big ones!"

Canada gulped as America circled him, looking at him from all angles. "I-I…s-sometimes I like to play with sticks and—"

"Sticks? Do you pretend they're swords? That's what I do! Arthur told me, he told me that he used to be a PIRATE when he was younger! Let's play pirates!"

"O-ooh, I don't like games that are too v-violent, I think they're scary…"

America ogled him, then grinned. "Okay!"

France patted the flustered Canada's shoulder. "Amerique is a little rowdy. You'll 'ave to excuse 'is lack of discipline."

"Oi! He's not rowdy! He's just spirited and energetic!" England stood up for his little charge. "At least HE'S not afraid of everything."

France glared at England. "Tch. Look what Canada can do!" He turned to the boy. "Tell Angleterre what I taught you!"

Canada blinked up and him and swallowed hard. "M-merci."

England was nonplussed. "So he knows how to say thank you. Simply means he's not a complete savage."

"Non, non, 'e said it in _French._" France explained. "Canada spoke English when I first met 'im but I have taught 'im to speak some French." Now, most countries speak different languages or different dialects at the very least. This might be a problem if it were not for the fact that all countries understand each other and oftentimes forget that they are even speaking separate languages. When Canada said "merci," England's mind, being used to France, automatically translated it to English and he did not hear it as it was.

England was still not impressed. "Bloody so what?"

"'So what?' French is ze most exquisite language on ze whole planet! It is a huge accomplishment for 'im to go from your dull and unimaginative language to mine, which is pure romance!"

England made a disgusted face. "Your language is bloody ridiculous. It sounds like an arrogant drunk with allergies!"

"SACRE BLEU IT DOES NOT!"

"It does so. Speaking your wino tongue is pittance. Teach him how to bloody fly and then I'll be impressed!"

France snorted and lit up a cigarette. "You want ze impossible."

America piped up. "I'm gonna fly someday. I gotta get bigger first, though!"

"What, are you going to evolve wings?" France asked snidely. "Is Angleterre going to teach you to charm yourself to be weightless?"

"No," America replied, seriously considering the matter. "I don't think it works like that. I think…it'd have to be some kind of…thing you ride on. Like a boat, except for the air."

Canada peeked out again. "I think that would be c-cool, America." America rewarded him with a beaming smile.

"See! He has ambition! What a chap," England cried, clapping America on the back and secretly thinking that America was a wee bit mental.

France blew smoke towards England and hugged Canada to his side. "I refuse to argue about zis anymore." This was very untrue; he fully intended to continue the argument when he thought up a suitable comeback to the situation. "I propose zat we have dinner now."

"FOOD!" America yelled, bouncing up and down, all thoughts of flying machines pushed out of his head in excitement.

France cheered as America tried to coax Canada (unsuccessfully) into hopping from one rock to the next, but his smile fell when he turned his back on the group. He would show England what a wonderful country Canada was; he swore it. Little did he think how problematic that would be.

oOoOo

_Hmm…France, wouldn't you want to keep Canada all to yourself?_


	5. Glory Days

_Oooh it kind of feels like fall where I am!_

CHAPTER FIVE: Glory Days

England bent over with his hands on his knees, panting. _Blimey, but that boy can run fast_, he thought, sweat beading on his forehead and the back of his neck. Even though autumn was approaching and the temperature was gradually falling, England still felt like he was melting every time America pulled one of his disappearing stunts, which usually happened when it was time for either lessons or baths. Somehow, miraculously, he always seemed to reappear when it was time to eat. He wiped perspiration off his face with the back of his hand and straightened up, looking around. Holding his breath, he listened to the forest around him. A rustling was coming from the left. Slowly, slowly, he turned his head and spotted a small figure crouched in the bushes.

America knelt in the dirt in the cover of some leafy bushes, holding a small homemade bow in which was strung a child's dull arrow. England stood some yards away, searching for him. The arrow in the bow was tipped with stringy moss which was attached to the shaft with twine. Feathers, found in the forest, decorated the back of the tiny toy weapon. America focused on England and raised the bow, pointing it at his beloved guardian. The small movement of his caught England's attention and the larger country began to approach the bushes with the pretend air of nonchalance. America waited until England was mere feet in front of his hiding place, then sprang up with a shout, loosing his arrow. The arrow flew through the air and bounced off of England's forehead. "Yeah!" America yelled, war whooping.

England had tried to pretend that he didn't know where his charge was and was simply approaching the bushes by accident, but America hadn't bought the ruse. Before England could react, one of America's homemade toy arrows hit his forehead and he gave a shout. The arrow didn't really hurt; it was tipped with some soft stuff and was not shot at a high speed, but it certainly surprised and irritated him. Rubbing his forehead, he saw America try to wade out of the bushes, a wide grin on his rounded face. _Oh, no you don't, you mad aleck,_ England thought, springing after the boy, who squealed and started to run for it, but tripped over a small hillock and sprawled on the ground. England was on him in a second, picking him up and tossing him over his shoulder. "Oh, you thought you could run from me, did you? Not today, mucky pup! It's time for a proper wash!"

"NO!" America yelled, struggling. "I hate baths! Don't make me do it!"

"Don't be a nutter, Alfred. Don't you want to be clean and smell nice?"

"No!"

"What? Why not, you twonk?"

"Because it's stupid!"

England jerked his shoulder upwards, jolting the boy a bit. "You're incorrigible. Too bad! You're getting a bath regardless!"

America continued to actively protest until England plunked him down next to the tub of already-drawn water and started unbuttoning his shirt. Recognizing defeat, he fell quiet and undressed, leaving on his underwear. He always refused to take off his underwear in front of England. Once in the water, he chattered again. "Guess what I did today, Arthur! I fought off a whole clan of invading robbers!" He dipped under the water, which was a little cold because of how long it had taken to wrangle him, and emerged spitting water. "They were comin' in from all sides! They was gonna steal our land and take the house, but I followed 'em with my bow and arrow. When they stopped to get off their horses, I jumped out and chased them off! There must have been hundreds of 'em!" He spread his arms wide, eyes glowing. "I shot my arrows at 'em and they were so scared they started running! I told them that if they came back, I'd blow 'em up with exploding fire. BOOM!" He slapped the water, sending a soaking sheet all over England.

"Oi, take care with what you're doing!" England chided, wiping his face with a towel. "Sounds like you've had a busy day." He soaped up America's silky hair.

"Yeah," America said, rinsing the soap out. "It was pretty tough. Y'know, I spend so much time protecting the homestead that I think I'm officially the hero around here."

England laughed, letting America soap up and rinse off the rest of himself. "A hero, hmm? What's your special power, talking the hind leg off a donkey? Should I call you something special?"

America considered this seriously. "No," he said after much thought. "I think that's just me. I'm just meant to be a hero all over, so Alfred will do fine."

"Right then. Alfred it will be." England held a cloth open for America to wrap himself in after climbing out of the tub. "How lucky I am to have such a brave lad protecting the homestead! Now I don't have to fear a thing!"

Rubbing his hair dry, America became somber. "I'd never let anything happen to you, Arthur."

England reached behind himself and grabbed a fresh pair of trousers, then held them out for America to put on. "You're silly. I'm the one who's supposed to be taking care of you."

America, swamped in the blanket, was silent for a while. Still holding the blanket, he opened his arms to England, who let the boy into his own embrace. The two huddled on the floor of the washroom for a few minutes, America's damp head buried in England's chest and England's arms wrapped around the young colony. "Hey, Arthur?" America said suddenly.

"'Hey' is not a word, Alfie."

"I love you."

England froze, ignoring the fact that the water from America's hair was seeping into his shirts. This was the first time his colony had ever told him that he loved him. Sure, England took care of the child, feeding him, bathing him, trying to teach him, playing with him, and disciplining him as necessary, but he always pictured himself as being simply respected by America, not loved. Had he done enough to deserve love? He felt his eyes sting with moisture and blinked it away. For a while he had been examining his own relationship with America. At first, though he liked the boy's halcyon personality, he had thought of him as a mere extension of his power and land, something to be controlled and trained for later use. The more time he spent with him, however, the more he realized that Alfred was a real "person," for lack of a better word, with deep emotions, fears, and aspirations. The realization forced England to reevaluate the way he thought about and treated his young charge.

Now here America was, a little brother telling his older brother that he loved him. For the first time since he adopted America, England embraced the word "brother" and applied it to himself. Scotland, Ireland, Wales…they were his brothers, yes, but they were terrible brothers. England could still be America's brother without being like them. He could be a good big brother and take care of Alfred like he was supposed to. All the things he felt about America and his future…these were acceptable feelings for a proper big brother to have. It was in this way that England came to the conclusion that this was what brotherly love was: the deepest parts of your heart wanting to take care of and see someone prosper beyond their most delirious dreams, the painfully sweet desire to stay with them forever.

"I love you too, Alfie," England replied, his voice shaky to his own ears.

America looked up suddenly, his eyes as blue and endless as the skies of his home. He made eye contact with England for a second, then turned red with embarrassment and darted away, throwing the blanket on the floor and forgetting to put on a shirt. "I'm gonna go back outside and roll in the dirt again!" He yelled, disappearing. "Baths are stupid!"

England sighed and, just like that, things were back to normal.

oOoOo

Both France and England frequently traveled back and forth between their own homes and North America over the next few years. France was rarely lonesome wherever he was, but England felt keenly the sting of separation from his beloved colony. When his head began to ache with weariness and his shoulders tighten from stress, he knew it was nearly time to voyage once more across the ocean to the sunny, wide-open smile of America.

During the times when both France and England were in North America, visiting their colonies, Canada and America often met to play in the woods and fields of their homes. They built dirt forts together, skipped stones in creeks, fished (Kumajirou especially liked this hobby), and looked for bugs under leaves and fern fronds. Canada taught America how to identify the different types of trees in the woods and America taught Canada how to climb those trees. In the winter months, Canada held America's hands and showed him how to skate on the glittering ice of the ponds around his house, then laughed quietly when the boisterous colony fell flat on his face. When high summer reigned and the moon was full, America smeared his own and Canada's face with dirt and dragged him outside to roll in the midnight dew and howl at the stars.

As young boys, ten years old, the two were best friends. In Canada's eyes, America represented all that was wild and free in the world; he was the finder of wondrous sites, the breaker of rules, and the fearless leader of exploratory expeditions. All that America did, he did fiercely, like a flame flickering and spreading from one place to the next. When he swam, he was never content until he had dived deeper than anyone ever had, even if his lungs ached for hours afterwards. When he wandered, he wouldn't return home until he had found a new nest of bird eggs or an especially beautiful stone. When he dreamed, his dreams were vibrant and emotionally charged. When he loved, his love was bright and warm and abundant.

To America, Canada was the most steadfast companion and confidante one could ever wish for. He was secret-keeper, animal-whisperer, and solid rock upon which all natural truth was grounded. His spirit ran quiet and deep, like a well filled with water so dark that no one could tell just how far it extended into the earth. He could not only name the constellations, but also tell stories of how they got their handles. He could take an injured bird home and have it flying again in a week. He was the pleading voice of reason when America tried to do something foolish, like eat strange plants he found in the forest. His love was earned, not free, though once gained, it lasted forever.

Neither France nor England liked sending their colonies over to the other's house. England was afraid that France would be a bad influence on America by speaking lewdly to him or telling him horrible things about his big brother. France was convinced that England, given enough time, would cause Canada's sense of taste to wither away or would turn the sweet child straitlaced with his stuffy manners. Because of these fears, both decided that they should be present whenever the children played together. The colonies didn't mind this arrangement at all, but the countries spent many days fighting and threatening each other while the boys were in the woods. Often, America and Canada would return from their play to find their guardians with black eyes and split lips. The injuries were explained away and the fighting was never mentioned outright.

All was not perfect in the boys' paradise, though. Sometimes Canada would run back to France, tears pooling in his eyes. "America tripped me!" he cried, clutching France's long jacket. "He's being a big meanie." France would bend down and soothe his colony, pulling some sweet or flower from his pocket to press in the child's hand. After this scene repeated itself a few times, England told Canada to stay put, then walked back to the house. He returned ten minutes later, carrying in his hand something green and globular. Wordlessly, he handed it to Canada. "What's that?" Canada asked.

"It's an artichoke. It will solve your row." Canada was confused, but England patted his head and smiled wryly. "Go on, then."

Canada rejoined America under a huge tree. America frowned, arms crossed over his chest. "Did you rat on me? That's rotten! I'm gonna tie you to a tree trunk and call a wild buffalo to come eat you!"

"Buffalo don't eat people, Alfred," Canada replied calmly.

"Oh yeah? Let's find out!" America ran towards his twin, but stopped as Canada held up the vegetable. He recognized it and froze. "Ew, that's gross! Keep that away from me!"

Canada leered. "Make me." He took a step towards America.

"Stop!" _Hon hon hon_. An evil expression passed over Canada's face and he sprinted toward his brother, who turned around and ran away as fast as he could, wailing.

England watched them from his seat in the sun and chuckled to himself. "Alfred abhors artichokes. I brought them from my home but he just will not accept them," he explained to the bemused France. "I think this is good for him." Canada did not stop chasing America until the sun had all but set and the other boy collapsed from exhaustion. America never tripped Canada again.

oOoOo

One night, after a visit during which England complained that Canada stared too much, France fetched a drink and sat his colony down. "Matthieu, I 'ave decided zat it is time to teach you ze ways of life."

"Eh? Life?"

"Oui." France stared at the ceiling thoughtfully, then uncrossed his legs, sat his elbows on his knees, and looked at Canada. "You are very like me. You find beauty in all ze world…men, women…and everyzing else. You already 'ave ze inner love…now I must teach you 'ow to 'arness zat power. Consider yourself lucky, Matthieu, for I am going to teach you ze art of sexy! And, you know, gentlemanliness, or whatever."

Canada became pink in the face and swallowed hard. "S-sexy? Don't you think I'm a little young? B-besides, I don't have any…untoward thoughts about anyone."

"Pah! You act as zough I have not seen you flirting wiz all ze girls in ze settlements! And your interest in drawings of ze ozzer countries? Zat is far from educational. And you want me to believe zat you 'accidentally' grabbed England's _derriere_ a fortnight ago?" France scoffed. "_Merci_, Matthieu, but I am not ze village idiot. But you do not understand…you are too kind…too soft…too genuine for zis world. It will eat you and zen throw you up. Zat is why I must teach you to control yourself now, while you are young." Canada's face had turned even more red and he seemed to be on the verge of an aneurysm. "It is not a flaw in your character, my sweet! Zis world misunderstands it…zat is all! You must simply learn to hide your romance. Learn from me, Matthieu, and no one will ever know what you are zinking."

Canada bobbed his head guiltily. "O-okay."

France patted his shoulder with paternal pride. "Good boy. Now, our first lesson is zis: 'ow to spy on people wizzout zem noticing."

oOoOo

"Good morning, Alfie! It's time to wake up!" England shook the sleeping boy's shoulder. America sleepily opened his eyes, blinked heavily, and yawned. England chuckled; America's tousled hair was standing up on all sides and he had lines on his face from where he had snuggled into his pillow. Affection glowed on the older country's face and he reached out a hand to smooth down his colony's silky locks. "Hop along now and I'll have breakfast cooked. We're going to do something special today!"

America popped out of bed. "Special? Like what? Are we gonna play a game? I'm a hero, you know, and I'll win."

"I wasn't planning on playing any games but I suppose we can turn it into a game if you fancy it so." England called back to the boy as he walked to the kitchen, tied on an apron and lit a fire in the iron stove.

Shirts flew across the room as America dug through his clothes trunk, a finely-carved wooden chest with metal hinges that England had brought from Europe. He dragged out his favorite play shirt and trousers and pulled them on while simultaneously heading for the door, tripping on the scattered clothes as he walked.

England served America's breakfast and sat down to watch him eat. A smile softened his face as he observed the gusto with which his colony devoured his cooking. "Say, Arthur," America said, staring at his plate. "Is this food the kind that people would call 'delicious?'"

_LOVE A DUCK, THE JIG IS UP,_ England thought, blanching and forgetting to breathe. _HE HAS GONE AND LEARNT THE TRUTH ABOUT MY COOKING! I ought never to have allowed him anywhere near that damned frog! _He took a deep breath. "O-of course it is, Alfred! Is it not obvious on its own?!"

America stopped chewing and looked at his guardian, only moving his eyes and not his head. England's face was like cranberries and cream—white with splotches of red. Sweat had beaded in his hairline. Still staring, America swallowed. "Okay!" he answered, wondering what had gotten into the man so suddenly. Deciding to ignore it, he happily attacked the rest of his breakfast, smiling blithely. England felt rather weak and laid his head down on the table. "So what are we gonna do today, huh?" America asked a bit later, pushing his empty plate away and poking England's head.

England sat up, still pale but recovering. "Well," he said. "do you remember those small fruit trees I brought you from my home and planted around here?"

America screwed up his face, thinking. "Apple trees?"

"Quite right, my boy. Apples. China brought them to me a long time ago. Anyway, I was out having a walk the other night and I noticed that the orchard trees had grown tall and were right rammed with stout, shiny fruit! I thought you and I could nip out, pick the apples, bring them back, and cook something new and exciting for dinner!" His eyes were starry with excitement as he dreamed of the toothsome treats he might bake for his darling little brother.

"Yeah!" America cheered, jumping up. "Let's do it!"

When the two reached the orchard an hour and a half later, England sat down the large baskets he'd carried. "Alright, then. How about you have a go at that tree and I'll have a go at this one," he instructed, pointing to two likely-looking trees dripping with fat apples.

America studied the trees critically. "Great. I bet you I can fill my basket faster than you!"

"Oh, that's how it is, hey?" England smirked. "You're on. And…and the loser must make dessert tonight!"

"Drop dead, Arthur!" America laughed, happiness bubbling over.

"Take a running jump, Alfred!" England called, grinning broadly (an unusual occupation for him). "Go!" The two scrambled to their trees and swung themselves up in the branches. They filled their arms with fruit, then dropped to the ground and dumped them in the bushel baskets. Once all the best fruit from one tree was exhausted, they sprinted to the next, rolling up their sleeves, picking leaves out of their hair, and giggling like little girls.

oOoOo

France used his hands to make a hole in a bush on the outskirts of the orchard. "See how I 'ave made a tiny peep-hole? I can see zem but zey did not see me! Zat is ze secret. Wait until zey are busy with somezing, zen make your hole quickly, efficiently, and as silently as possible."

Beside him, Canada nodded. He narrowed his eyes and made a small hole in the bush, just like France had. "Oh!" He said. "Look, there they are!"

"Hmm. Apple-picking? Oh, Angleterre, how droll!" France chuckled quietly. "As I 'ave told you, 'e knows nozzing of ze fine zings in life."

"I don't know, Francis," Canada replied, looking at the fruit-collecting pair wistfully. "I think it looks fun."

"Oh?" France looked at Canada. "Do you like zese kinds of simple activities?"

Canada continued to watch through the leaves. "I don't know. Maybe…maybe it doesn't really matter what you're doing as long as you're doing it with someone you love, eh? I mean, Kamajeena and I always have fun."

The bear, chewing on a wayward fallen apple, looked sleepily at his master. "Who are you?"

"I'm Canada," the boy sighed. He pulled away from the hole in the bush and looked at his companion. "And you and I, Francis…we always have a good time together…don't we?"

Thinking back, France couldn't recall he and Canada ever having a _bad_ time together. "Oui," he answered. A weird feeling crept over his shoulder. He looked at Canada, then sat back on his heels and stroked his short beard. "Matthieu…I have somezing to tell you."

"What?" he asked nervously.

"I've been meaning to explain zis for a while…you and I…" France struggled to find the right words. "We're not really brozzers."

Canada wasn't sure how to react. "W-what do you mean?"

"I've always called you my little brozzer, no? But ze truth is zat…we are not actually related." France turned away dramatically, not wanting to see his colony's reaction.

"Oh," Canada exhaled relief. "I already knew that. I thought you were about to say you didn't like me anymore." He returned to watching through the peephole.

Surprised, France turned back around. "Non! Never! You'll always by _mon petite _Matthieu! I'm only telling you zis because…it might be important one day. Zings change. Relationships change." He saw Canada becoming alarmed again by his cryptic words and patted his head. "But I'll tell you what will never change. You will always have zat lovely twinkle in your eyes and ze ability to make me the 'appiest of anyone. Zat will never go away."

Canada smiled, flushing a bit. He said nothing and turned once more to his watching-hole.

oOoOo

The race was down to bare bones. Both country and colony had only an armful of apples left to collect in order to win. They were sweaty and gritting their teeth, determined not to lose. America dropped from his tree and looked behind himself as he gathered up the two apples that had fallen from his arms. England was mere seconds behind, but he was still behind. If he ran now, America would win. Envisioning himself winning, America launched himself toward his basket, but was distracted when he noticed a curl sticking out of a bush to his right. _Canada?_ He thought. He was so confused at the sight that he forgot to look where he was going and tripped over a heavily bruised apple embedded in the ground. His armful of apples scattered across the ground and he gasped. "I WON!" England yelled from a few yards away. The Brit jigged over to where his colony was sprawled, yelped, and helped him pick himself up. "Oi, what happened here?"

"I thought I saw Canada in the bushes," the boy answered. "Right there. I swear, he was there!"

England thought of France and scowled. The bushes appeared to be empty, however. After examining it thoroughly, he turned back to America, a knowing smile growing. "You're a right tommy-rot liar, you are. I see you trying to distract me from my victory, but it won't work! I won!"

"I am not!" America protested.

"Are so!" England pulled America close and ran his fingers up and down his sides, tickling him. "You're a radge pot and a cheater!"

America shrieked with laughter, trying unsuccessfully to push England away. "Nuh-uh! St-stop! No!" He wouldn't hurt the country though, and let the onslaught continue, rolling around on the ground and writhing. "Don't tickle me!"

Falling to the grass with his colony, England continued to tickle America, moving from his ribs to his underarms to under his neck. "No, I won't stop tickling you until you promise to make me a rollicking good sweet tonight with these apples!"

"Okay!" America gasped, tears in his eyes. "I promise! I promise!"

Apples from America's last armful sat idle in the grass, reflecting the sunlight. England picked one up and crunched into it, letting the boy up off the ground. "Oi, these are ace." He chewed contentedly, then screeched as America tackled him. "What the devil?"

"Payback is rough!" The colony announced, climbing onto England's stomach and tickling him just as he himself was tickled. England gasped and succumbed to the attack, laughing and pushing at America, who managed to hang on. The two rolled under the trees, screaming with mirth.

oOoOo

Canada, who had moved to another vantage point after his brother spotted his curl, was still watching. France jerked his head, indicating that it was time to go. Reluctantly, Canada crawled away behind his guardian. Once out of view of the orchard, they stood up and started jogging back home. "Say, France," Canada began, thinking of England and America's spirited play fighting in the grass. "does America know that he and England aren't brothers?"

"What? Amerique?" France cocked his head and considered. "I would zink so, alzough Angleterre is a little _closer_ with 'is colony. (I told you, 'e is a creepy man.) Why do you ask?"

"Don't you…don't you think America kind of _likes_ England?"

France answered slowly. "Of course 'e does. Angleterre takes care of 'im."

Canada shook his head, jiggling his curl. "No, you know what I mean."

France stopped jogging and knit his eyebrows together. This wasn't part of the plan. _He is just a boy. Just a boy._ He tried to soothe himself with calming thoughts. _Angleterre thinks of him as his true little brother. He's just a child. It'll take him decades if not centuries to grow up. His recent growth spurt is just a fluke. He'll be a child for years to come. _His self-therapy was working. He relaxed and began to jog again. Everything was going to be okay. _Amerique is no threat._

oOoOo

_I think this was the time of life England treasures the most._


	6. Promises and Lies

CHAPTER SIX: Promises and Lies

"You promise you'll come back soon?" America asked, teary-eyed and unhappy on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean.

England ceased stacking boxes to be loaded on the ship and turned around, kneeling in front of his colony. "Yes. I'll be back at the beginning of next summer. I promise. Next June, wait for me on this shore and I'll come back." He stretched out his hand and wiped the tears from the eleven-year-old's face. "You're too big to cry now, Alfie."

America turned away, hiding his face from his guardian. "It's just that I'll miss you so much," he explained brokenly, pulling England's hands away from his face and holding them in his own. He hated when England left, hated it with a gnawing, nauseating burn. There was nothing, no one in the world like England.

Emotion sprang to England's eyes also at America's words and he stood abruptly, refusing to give them control. "Look here, I made you a present to show what a strapping lad you've become!" He opened a trunk sitting among the boxes and, after digging about in it, pulled out a handsome musket. America's eyes widened as England placed it gently in his hands. "It's a bit unwieldy for you now, but with a touch of practice you'll grow right into it! I think it's high time you learnt to defend yourself against other countries who want to gain control over you."

"Gee whiz," America marveled, turning the weapon over in his hands and admiring the shining, polished wood. "now I'm really a hero! Is it loaded?"

"No," England replied, "but I've left you boxes of ammunition for practice and a set of very specific instructions as to the loading, unloading, discharging, and care of the gun. I trust you won't do anything dangerous with it."

America grimaced. "Of course not." Already his mind was buzzing with numerous immature ways to use it, more than one of which involved playfully terrifying poor Canada. He finally tore his eyes away from the gun to see that all of England's luggage had been loaded on the ship and it was time to say goodbye. He felt distinctly teary again and so made a face, determined to be the young man England felt him to be. "Guess this is good-bye, then."

"It's not good-bye, Alfie, it's an 'until the next time.'" He noticed America's face and opened his arms. "come, dearest, give Arthur a hug."

America put down his new weapon and rushed into England's arms, inhaling deeply the smell of England's clothes, skin, hair...memorizing again the feel of his arms and the color of his eyes. Being parted from him was surely to painful to be allowed. "Don't forget about me," he whispered.

"You say the silliest things!" England laughed and pushed America back to look at his face properly. "As if I could forget about you! Don't be so dramatic, love, I'm coming back! I told you, wait for me next June and you'll see me. I promise!" He ran a hand over America' s smooth boyish cheek and felt a rush of affection for the child. Smiling sadly, he leaned forward and kissed America's forehead.

America froze and blood poured into his face. England had kissed his forehead! He leaped back and scrubbed at his forehead with his hand. "Yuck!" he yelled, still redder than he had ever been in his life. "You're so weird!" The feeling of the older country's lips was still emblazoned on his skin and it made him uncomfortable.

Sighing, England straightened up. As usual, his colony had taken a sweet moment and turned it upside-down. "Well, I'm heading out now." He turned around and noticed that France had appeared at the harbor as well and was saying goodbye to his own colony. "Take care of yourself," he called over his shoulder. "for me as well as yourself." The last bit was said privately for only himself to hear.

America clutched his present tightly and stood beside Canada as the ship sailed away. Both boys were silent for a while, then turned away to go home. "You can still come stay at my house sometimes if you want to, Mattie," America reminded his brother. "I'm gonna learn to cook and stuff."

"Alright. Thanks. I think I will."

oOoOo

On the ship, France stood next to England, watching the waves roll and the shore disappear. "Don't look so abjectly miserable, Angleterre," he said. "you're going 'ome! Surely you don't feel as strongly for your Amerique as you do for ze friends you've 'ad for centuries."

England scowled. "Don't pretend to know how I feel," he replied, not looking at the other man, then walked brusquely away.

France watched him leave and frowned. He was so unreadable, alien and strange. Who could know what was going on behind those bushy eyebrows? Maybe this thing with America was even worse than he'd believed.

oOoOo

America passed the time as well as he could, practicing unloading and reloading his musket as fast as he could. The gun was still too large for him to shoot properly, but he familiarized himself with every other aspect of it. Though a while had passed, he didn't seem to be growing any more. When he looked in the mirror, a small boy always looked back, though he felt like he should be aging at least a little. _Oh well,_ he thought, pouring tea for himself and dutifully adding milk and sugar like England had taught him. _I'll ask Arthur when he comes back. _He didn't actually like milk and sugar in his tea and he rather preferred it cold…but England had said that tea was to be drank a certain way and so America didn't question it.

France had promised Canada to return at the same time as England, but Canada didn't spend time pining over the loss of his guardian. He was quickly becoming obsessed with finding curved sticks and using them to knock flat rocks around in the grass. Though he hadn't come up with any rules or regulations to govern the knocking around of the rocks, he had the vague idea that he was close to discovering something. America showed little interest in his rule-less game and instead used thick sticks to hit round rocks in the air. If only he had more friends…he could turn this into a real game where one person _threw_ the rock, another _hit_ the rock, and others _caught_ the rocks once they were hit. He considered going into the villages and meeting the people, but wanted to wait until England came back so he could accompany him.

June approached rapidly, though not quickly enough for America. He ticked days off the calendar and paced the house, which he'd kept meticulously clean, just as England had told him to. Everything was as England liked it—the floors were swept, the cabinets dusted, clothes picked up, and a fresh pot of tea brewed every day at three o'clock sharp. On the first day of June, America dressed himself up smartly and ran to the harbor to await the arrival of his beloved guardian. The day passed without sign of England, so America figured that he had just been a little delayed and would certainly come in the next couple of days. Every morning he dressed, packed a lunch, ran to the harbor, and sat on the dock, looking out over the ocean and waiting. Five days into this vigil, Canada joined him. "Francis wrote and said he was coming today," he explained when questioned by his brother. America grew excited. England MUST be coming with France! That's how he'd often done it in the past! Today must be the day!

Sure enough, a boat sailed into the harbor later that afternoon. With much pomp and drama, France descended the gangplank and twirled Canada around in his arms. "_Mon petite Matthieu_," he gushed. "'ow I 'ave missed you! It 'as been far too long. Let's go 'ome and I shall cook some chateaubriand. You would like zat, non?" Canada affirmed that he most certainly would and the pair went away happily, after bidding America farewell.

America, not paying much attention to them, waited for England to disembark. When he did not, the boy ran up the gangplank and found the captain. "'scuse me, sir, where might I find England?"

"England? The fellow with the bushy eyebrows? I know him. He didn't board this ship."

"What?" America was taken aback. "He's not here?"

"Not that I know of. Hold on, I'll look at the passenger records." The seasoned sailor pulled out a sheaf of paper and looked it over. "Sorry, my lad, he wasn't on this voyage."

America trudged back home that night, confused. Where was England? He ate a sad dinner, then cheered himself with the remembrance that June was still young and England was bound to arrive any day. The next morning he repeated his routine at the dock, then the next, and the next, until the first day of August. June was gone and England still had not returned. America had long since wearied of sitting at the dock, staring at the ocean, but could not find it in himself to stay at home. England would find him waiting if…NO! Not if! When! England would find him waiting _when_ he returned.

oOoOo

England, meanwhile, was overloaded with work. The expansion of his territory mixed with religious and political unrest was taking a toll on his strength. How was one man to do all that was required to run a country and its people? One day, looking at his calendar, he realized that it was halfway through June. "Great scott," he yelped, "I promised Alfred I'd be back by now!" He ran a hand through his hair and hurriedly penned out a letter, apologizing for his absence but saying that he'd come as soon as he was able. Telling himself that he'd send the letter early the next morning, he sat it on a high shelf and promptly forgot about it. The letter was never sent.

oOoOo

Canada returned to the harbor at the end of August to bid France goodbye. Only after the ship bearing his companion sailed away did he realize, shocked, that America was still sitting at the end of a dock, stirring his feet in water and resting his head in his hands. "Alfred…why are you still here?" Canada sat next to his brother. Alfred, in monotone, told him of his problem. "England…_never came_? But…he promised, eh?" There was no reply. America sniffled and a tear coursed down his cheek. He had sat on this dock for two solid months, waiting for nothing. His big brother wasn't coming after all. He didn't even care enough to write.

England had surely forgotten about him.

Canada, who had never seen America cry before, was shaken and unsure what to do. Thinking of the way that he himself loved France and how sad he would be if France had forgotten about him, he found sympathy in his heart for his downtrodden twin and so put his arms around him and pulled him close. America cried on his chest for a while, then, all cried out, sat up. "I think I'm alright now." He looked away, at once embarrassed for his brother to have seen him like this.

"Good." Canada stood up and extended a hand to America, helping him to his feet. "Let's go home. I'll cook for you tonight."

Feeling heavy and tired, America nodded. The two walked a while in silence, then America shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at his brother. "Thanks, Mattie." Canada smiled back and wisely kept silent.

oOoOo

England collapsed in bed, exhausted from the busy day. The work never stopped! As soon as he smoothed over one problem, another one cropped up in its place! It was like the dragon that grew back its head every time it was chopped off. He snuggled into his pillow. The pillow smelled like lavender. Alfred liked lavender, especially at bedtime; it helped him to sleep. England's eyes flew open. Alfred! What day was it? He hadn't been keeping track. Rolling out of bed, he got up and looked at the small calendar he kept in his desk. _Good lord,_ he thought, _it shall be Christmas soon._ He slumped into his desk chair. Even at this festive time of year, he couldn't just leave and go back to America…there were just too many things to do. His boss had just sent him an itinerary with another year's worth of social engagements and ambassadorial duties to perform. A weight in his heart intensified as he realized that it might be a while until he could return to his colony.

No matter. America would still be a young boy when he returned, no doubt of that. There was still plenty of time to spare. He would be able to teach his colony all the ways of a gentleman and more. Without a country there to guide him, America wouldn't be able to grow. It simply did not happen. Alfred would be his little brother for a very long time yet. The thought comforted England and he allowed himself to slip back into bed, wishing that he could see his colony's dear sleeping face again.

oOoOo

One morning, a few weeks after being brought home by Canada, America woke up and decided that he was going to visit the villages of his land to see what they were doing and what kind of life they were living. He started locally and wandered through the markets and homes, meeting people and learning about how they lived their daily lives. Presently he discovered the delights of coffee and stopped making tea in the mornings in favor of brewing the strong, black drink. Gradually he expanded to towns that were further and further away and began picking up new patterns of speech as well as new habits of dress. He stopped feeling guilty about how much England would fuss about the state of his clothes and let himself dress more simply and comfortably.

Instead of relying on British cookbooks left behind by England, America began experimenting with food and soon developed a list of his own favorite recipes, including cornbread, roast potatoes, meats, and sweet corn on the cob. He tried ale for the first time and found it to go exceptionally well with pork. Cider was the perfect drink at Christmastime, especially when shared with friends or with Canada. Teatime persisted for a long time, but he finally realized that he did not need it to consider himself proper. Even with these thoughts in his head, sometimes he would still get unreasonably sad at three o'clock in the afternoon, thinking back to when his big brother would teach him about the world. Whenever this would happen, he would shake his head and go outside to practice with his gun.

The house slowly emptied of British influence and filled with things America found in the woods, or made himself, or bought or was given in the neighboring towns. Something felt different about himself…but America couldn't put a name to it. He felt energized, awed, attuned to the life all around him. His heart thumped to a new beat, the beat of his own land and people. England was a dull ache in the back of his heart, a pain to be squashed. Heading out the door one morning to help work in the local farmers' fields, America stopped and took a look in the mirror for the first time in many, many months.

Only then did he realize that he'd grown a whole foot taller.

oOoOo

_Oh, England, you should never be too busy for family. Boy, are you gonna be shocked when you come back to your "little" brother!_


	7. The Twins' Troublesome Relationship

CHAPTER SEVEN: Canada and America's Troublesome Relationship

Adolescence plowed into Canada and America like a book to the face, putting all sorts of weird ideas about their own superiority and invincibility in their heads. Canada was able to successfully keep his delusions of grandeur under wraps, but America had no such skills and was fast becoming impressed with himself. Equally quickly, Canada was finding many of his brother's quirks to be tiresome. "Must you be so loud? I'm trying to study, eh?" The northern country glared at his twin, who was humming to himself loudly as he swept the floor.

"Sorry, dude. Just gracing the room with some sweet tunes!" Smiling, he hummed almost silently, which placated Canada, though he still caught snippets of song every now and again. After he was finished with the housework, America bounded up to his brother and clapped him on the back, causing him to spit out the mouthful of tea he'd just imbibed. "It's so gorgeous outside…what do you say we play some ball?"

"Ball?" Canada wiped up the tea with a washcloth, irritated. The tea had soaked into the pages of the novel he was deep into.

"Yeah! I'm tired of being stuck in the house."

Canada looked wistfully at his book, then at his brother's excited face, and sighed internally. _I guess an hour of exercise would do me good after all_. "S-sure," he agreed. America whooped and ran to get the equipment he'd recently bought from nearby villagers.

The pair moved outside into the sunshine. America presented his brother with a glove, made of a soft, supple leather. "Here. I had them make you one as well." The northern nation took it, touched by his brother's generosity, and turned it over in his hands to admire the fine needlework. "It's a glove for playing ball," America explained, pulling his own on. "I found that sometimes the ball hurts your hand when you catch it, or sometimes your hand gets sweaty and you lose grip of the ball. This glove, even thought it's only a prototype, helps with both of those problems."

"You really put thought into this thing, eh? I'm impressed."

America beamed. "Yeah! And it cost less to get two made, so you totally don't have to pay me back for it."

"Oh." Canada's flattered expression dropped and he looked far less favorably at his new glove. His change in countenance did not deter America from jogging backward and calling out a warning before launching a ball through the air. Canada hadn't the time to prepare and had only time to look around, panicked, before he was struck on the shoulder by the ball. "OW!" He yelled, clutching the stinging skin. "Hey! I wasn't ready yet!"

"Well, get ready faster! Throw the ball back!" Canada glared towards the place where America stood. He threw the ball back and watched as his brother caught it with ease. "Dude, you throw so weakly."

Canada opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by the ball striking his other shoulder. "Ouch! Alfred! Stop throwing the ball so hard! And wait until I'm ready!" He threw the ball back again.

"Alright, ya pansy, are you ready now?"

Glove raised, Canada nodded. "Yes." He readied himself and gritted his teeth. The ball whistled through the air. He positioned his glove, but it was to no avail. The ball slammed into his stomach. "Dammit…Alfred…" he wheezed, doubling over and dropping his glove. That hurt! Slowly he straightened, anger growing as the pain faded. He picked up the ball again, tossed it up and down a few times, then chucked it as hard as he could at America's head.

"Heh-hey!" America cheered. "You're getting the hang of it!" He raised his own glove and caught the ball easily right before it connected with his temple. Canada stared, panting, then threw down his glove and stalked back into the house. "Where are you going, bro?" America called after him. "Alright, that's cool! I'll stay here and keep practicing!"

The only reply was the slamming of the front door.

oOoOo

Such events were not uncommon in those days. America had discovered with glee his athletic prowess and happily challenged his brother to all sorts of races involving running, swimming, rock climbing, and other physical activities. Canada, being more delicate of limb and quieter of spirit, was systematically overpowered in every athletic match imaginable except skating and finding discreet hiding places. Years of spying with France had taught him how to divine excellent locations and methods of concealment.

As was the case with playing ball, Canada quickly grew disenchanted with the idea of competing with his twin in anything athletic and instead focused on comforting, homey pursuits like reading, gardening, and cooking. Kumajirou was forever a willing taster of any and all new recipes Canada tried. America, on the other hand, had no sense of taste, thanks to England, and was an unreliable judge.

Just when Canada was beginning to suspect that there was truly nothing useful at all about his brother, America surprised him. The quieter country had gone out for a walk one night when he came across an unfamiliar presence. A tanned, tall man with dark curly hair was sneaking through the woods, taking notes on his surroundings. He stopped when he saw Canada, wonder in his eyes. "Hola. Are you a country too, amigo? I didn't realize there were two of you."

By "two of you," Canada figured he was talking about his brother. "Oh, do you know Alfred?"

"You could say that." The man looked Canada up and down. Something in the new country's air made Canada uncomfortable. Knowing that America was nearby, he backed up, intending to head back to the house. "Oi, where are you going?" The strange man leaned against a tree. "Why don't you come back to my house? We could get to know each other."

Canada swallowed hard and turned away. "I'd really rather not," he explained weakly.

The man grabbed his arm roughly, stopping him. "Oh, come on! You're a cutie! I bet even Romano would like you! Look, your face turns tomato-red too! Come live at my house!" He pulled harder, dragging Canada with him.

"N-no, let me go," Canada cried, vainly tugging at his trapped arm. "S-stop!"

"Inglés won't miss you. Come with me."

"I don't belong to England…I belong to France….please stop!"

"You don't belong to Fránces anymore. I heard you were Inglés's colony now," the man explained, a little confused. "But you're going to be mine soon, so it really doesn't matter."

Sticks and dead leaves cracked and crunched below their feet as Canada strained to free himself. He was becoming more and more panicked as confusion and desperation set in. "W-what? That's not true! ALFRED!" He yelled, twisting around. "ALFRED!"

The dark man chuckled. "I can't wait to see Inglés's face tomorrow. I haven't messed this badly with him since we were pirates." He jerked Canada's arm, almost causing the teen to fall over. "He can't hear you, _querido_. You might as well stop yelling."

America had, however, heard the cries for help and presently came barreling through the underbrush. "MATT!" He spotted his distressed twin and doubled his pace. "What the…Spain! Let go of my brother!"

Spain stopped, assessed his new foe, and continued on his way. "No."

America pulled from a rucksack the musket England had given him, and pointed the weapon at Spain's head. "Let. Him. Go."

Again, Spain halted. The appearance of the gun was unexpected and his eyes did not leave the weapon as he dropped his victim's arm. "Okay. I'm leaving. Don't do anything hasty." America motioned with the barrel and Spain obligingly backed away. Breathing hard, Canada stepped behind his brother.

America refused to lower his gun until Spain had completely disappeared, at which point he sighed and relaxed. "You know, I should really learn to actually shoot this thing," he remarked, dropping the gun back into his bag.

"Y-you didn't know how to…?" Canada clutched a tree for support, feeling weak again.

"Naw. I've never learned," replied America. "Come on. I'll take you back home." He shouldered his pack and, with a last look towards where Spain had disappeared, turned and walked away.

Canada followed slowly at first, but heard a sound in the woods and so hurried to catch up to his brother. The two walked together silently. "Th-thanks back there, Alfred," Canada offered after a while. "I wasn't sure if you were going to come." He chuckled softly, nervously, torn between gratefulness and anger at his twin's lack of preparedness.

"That's stupid." America had been puzzling over where might be a good place to learn to shoot his gun, but now frowned at his brother instead. "I'll always be there for you." Privately annoyed that his train of thought had been interrupted, he restarted his mental search of the surrounding grounds.

Canada brushed his soft hair out of his eyes and straightened his clothes, which had become mussed during the struggle. He had become suddenly self-conscious and was eager to appear as composed as possible. "I should be able to defend myself," he admitted, guilty.

The southern nation abandoned his thoughts again and laughed. "Come on, Mattie. We both know that's not going to happen." Canada tried to protest, but was guffawed into red-faced humility. "You're not a fighter. I decided a long time ago that I was going to protect you. And that's okay." He added the last part hastily, looking sidelong at his brother to make sure he hadn't made things worse.

The Canadian's expression was unreadable. He stared ahead, brows knit and lips pressed together. Finally, to America's relief, he shrugged. "I-I guess you're right. And…I guess I don't mind that so much." He looked over at his sibling's smiling face and thought back to the days when he would have taken his hand and been comforted by his closeness. Somehow, now, that door seemed shut. They were too old for such things. _But to just walk with you is nice, too, _he thought, putting his hands in his pockets.

oOoOo

It wasn't until the next morning that Canada remembered what Spain had said. "Alfred, I was thinking…what was Spain talking about last night when he said that I was England's colony?" The thought had come to him right as he had woken up, and he hurried to wake his brother and hear the truth. "He was talking nonsense, right? Alfred?"

America stirred sleepily and tugged at his covers, pulling them down from his face. "What's that?" Slowly he sat up, rubbed his eyes, and scratched his neck.

"Spain. Last night. He…he said that I was England's colony. I just…I wanted to know what he was talking about." Canada wasn't expecting America's back to stiffen and his eyes to harden, but they did. Fear crept up his back as he noted the shadow that seemed to fall over his brother. "Alfred?"

"He was right, Matt," America replied, not looking at him. "The villages got news two days ago. You've been signed as Arthur's new colony." He laid back down and surrounded himself with blankets again, staring at the wall.

"W-what?" Canada was aghast. "But…what about Francis? Why? Didn't he…did he not…did I do something wrong?" He gripped the post of America's bed tightly, physically shaken.

America turned his head and noticed his brother's distress. "What?"

"It's just…I mean…did he…get tired of me? Was I…a bad little brother?"

"No, no, Matt, listen," America was sitting up again, reaching for his twin. "It wasn't like that at all. Really. Arthur decided he wanted you too…there was a fight and everything; it's not your fault."

Canada's eyes widened even more. "Is Francis hurt?"

"No, I don't think so."

"How did England win, then?"

"I…" America wasn't sure what to say, so he told the truth. "I heard France surrendered your territory when threatened by Arthur."

"Oh." Canada released the bed post. "Is that so."

America bit his lip, uncomfortable. "That's what I heard." His brother was silent. "But…look…it's not that bad…it just means the relationships with our lands can be even closer. It'll be fun, right?"

Canada smiled limply and nodded. "Oh, yes, that's…" He took a deep breath and released it. "Nothing's really changed! I was just surprised, is all. I'm glad I found out! Thanks for telling me, I'm glad I can count on you! Oh, and I'm sorry for waking you…that was not very thoughtful of me…"

"It's fine, bro. I'll just go back to sleep."

"Good!" Canada patted America's covered feet, then left, closing the door behind himself and leaving America to his own thoughts.

America flopped back on his pillow and stared at the ceiling. He hadn't mentioned the whole deal to his brother before now because, though he wouldn't admit it himself, he had thought that he could ignore it into nonexistence. So England hadn't visited him for years and then suddenly adopted a new little brother. So what? That didn't mean anything.

Except it did. It meant that he had been replaced.

Canada caught him later that day, shooting teacups off a fence with his musket, which he had finally learned to fire. He recognized the victimized china; it was England's favorite design from his favorite company. America had, up until now, kept them safe in a special cabinet and had polished them every month, only bringing them out for holidays. Canada winced as another shot rang out and a shining cup was blasted into painted shards. Choosing to remain silent, he took a seat and watched the destruction.

Eventually America realized that Canada was behind him and turned, shame-faced, to greet him. He waited for his brother to speak up and question him, judge him, and became nervous when it did not happen. "I got tired of this stupid dishware," he explained almost angrily, feeling unreasonably nettled. "I needed something to practice my marksmanship with."

"Alright," Canada agreed mildly.

His refusal to comment on the proceedings infuriated America. "Don't just sit there and stare at me! Just because Arthur liked these dumb cups doesn't mean I did! And he left them here! I have every right to use them in any way I want to!" Canada simply blinked and leaned his head in his hand. America scowled harder. "What? What's the matter with you?"

"Why are you angry? I haven't even said anything."

"I'm not angry! I just want you to stop looking at me like I'm doing something wrong! They're just teacups!" They weren't just teacups. They were England, little pieces of England that stood in the cabinet and taunted America every time he looked at them. "I don't care that he liked them." He turned and shot again, shattering yet another cup.

"Are you hurt that England adopted me?" Canada asked softly.

America's heart flopped unpleasantly. "No, of course not. It doesn't matter to me; you're my brother anyway. Don't say weird things like that." He reloaded his gun and aimed it.

"Do you love England?"

"Yeah," America growled, closing one eye so as to aim more accurately. "he's my big brother."

Canada stirred, restless. "Do you really love him like that?"

"Huh?" America lowered his gun and ogled his brother, face scrunched up.

"I mean…are you sure you love him like a brother?"

Such a question had never entered America's mind and he found it oddly disquieting. "O-of course I do. What are you saying?"

To be honest, Canada wasn't sure what he was saying. The thought had come to him, after his morning talk with America, that something was strange about the way he felt when he thought about France. All the times they had spent together, the mornings, the evenings, the letters and the visits…these memories comforted him, made him feel safe and alive…made him miss France. He thought about all the things he liked about France. His talent. His energy. His philosophy about life. His voice, his laughter, his presence.

His body. His body was beautiful. Canada envied it, admired it. He thought…about touching it. He knew what France's skin felt like…it was soft, warm, and firm. His arms were, anyway. What did…his face feel like? His hands? The skin hidden under his shirt, the skin that only appeared when he emerged from a steaming tub, wrapped from the waist down in towels?

His own thoughts scared him and he wanted to know that he wasn't a freak, that there wasn't anything wrong with him, that these thoughts were normal and he shouldn't feel ashamed. He had never felt this way about America. Never. America was his brother and, though he loved him with his whole heart, it was completely different from his relationship with France. All this, swirling in his head, is why he pressed America so hard for an answer. "Do you think it's possible that you love him…like a man?"

America twitched and stared, horrified, at Canada, his gun almost falling from his hands. "God! No! I…no! That's revolting! I…god, Matt, he's my brother!"

Canada stood up, approaching America, who looked terrified at his coming nearer. "So…you can honestly say…you feel the same way about England that you feel about me? The same exact way?"

The two breathed hard, looking each other hard in the eyes. America's eyes widened and he resisted the temptation to take a step back from the pleading truth in Canada's face. Everything was a blur; he couldn't remember how they had started talking about this. "Y-yes, I feel the same about both of you." America mumbled, numb.

But it was a lie and suddenly, horrifyingly, he knew it.

oOoOo

_I apologize for taking so long! It's so hard to find quality time to write at uni! I hope this chapter makes up for it._


	8. Pictures on the Walls

_PLEASE READ:_

_As I said before the first chapter, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, please do NOT PM me (or review) to tell me that my story is historically-inaccurate-and-here's-why. _

_I'm very happy that you passed history class. I did, too._

_But this is NOT historically accurate fanfiction! I repeat, I am NOT writing this to be 100% historically accurate! Think of history as…a guideline, not an actual outline._

_I swear to god if I get one more PM (or review) about historical accuracy I am going to devote a whole chapter to aliens just to prove that I'm not focusing on accuracy!_

_LOL. Thanks for reading that. I feel a little better now._

CHAPTER EIGHT: England Returns

Excitement was building uncontrollably in England's chest, making him feel as though he was running but going nowhere at the same time. Finally, he was back, hurrying through the tall grasses of the plains close to where he and little America had build their homestead, about to see his colony again. Looking around, he'd been discomforted by the number of villages and towns that he had passed on his journey. He hadn't expected to see such progress in the few years he'd been gone. These colonists were different from most he'd seen before; they were at once both ant-like and wolf-like, moving together as one to accomplish overwhelming tasks while maintaining a fierce individuality.

He had stopped at a small town pub to have a drink and listen to some local conversation. Again, with unease, he noticed that he was hearing virtually no mention of his homeland. Even worse, the few times it _was_ mentioned were more or less disapproving. How had this come about? When he'd left, his homeland was respected, admired, _adored._ What had happened between now and then?

England had stopped walking. He realized it and started forward again. All he wanted was to hold America's small frame in his arms again, to cook for him, and to hear him say that he missed and loved his big brother. Love. He loved his colony, his little brother. Love? Yes, love. He could say that; America was still a little boy. He was glad that he'd admitted it. It made him feel…freer.

The house was in sight. England's heart thumped louder, harder. The box of tea he held in his hands (a gift for America) felt heavier; he couldn't make it to the door. He couldn't, it was too far, he was too…America might…the whole thing was…and he was on the doorstep. Suddenly terrified to go through the door, he took a deep breath and swung it open. "America! I'm home! And I brought you some of that tea you always favored because we…" He stopped.

A taller man, no, older teen, had entered the room, shock awash on his face. Hyperaware as England was at the moment, he saw (imagined?) shades of anger, trepidation, and tremulous joy color the teen's face before dissipating. England's brain realized a key fact seconds before he acknowledged it to his own awareness: this young man, this tanned specimen of adolescence…this was his colony, his Alfred, his little boy. His little boy…

"Arthur?" He hadn't realized that America had been talking. "Uh, Art?"

"I beg your pardon?" England finally responded.

America now looked entirely at ease, all surprise and other emotion purged. "I said 'yo Artie, what's up?'"

England felt that he must be missing something. When did America learn to talk in such a ridiculous way? "Did you just call me Artie?"

America grinned. "Yep."

_Yep_? Who _was_ this person? Where had his nice, sweet, eager little brother gone? Mouth agape, he stared at America. "_Gehh?_"

"Dude, are you alright?" America frowned at his mentor. "Oookay, well, I'm going to go work outside for a while. You can come with me or stay here; I'll be back in an hour."

England watched him leave, then sank into a chair when the door closed. Details about the room around him started to come into focus in his mind. Gone were the British flags. Gone were the doilies, the flower vases, the decorative china…hand-woven cloth hangings from the natives had replaced the dignified artwork that had previously hung on the wall. Hand-made pottery sat on decorative tables, holding stalks of wheat or dried plant matter such as pinecones and ferns. The home had acquired an earthy feel. On the table sat a bowl of apples. The sight of the fruit brought back memories to England, memories of apple-picking and morning lessons and tea-times. Speaking of which, where were…? "Where are my teacups?" He asked America the moment the latter stepped through the door.

America paused, horrified, the composed himself. "I lost them a long time ago."

"You _lost _them? How? Those were my favorites!"

"Well," America said lightly, putting a basket of blueberries on the table. "No one was using them. They must have just gotten lost in the movements of the household."

"No one was using them? Why didn't you use them?"

"I don't like drinking tea _alone_."

Cold silence. Was…was America mad that England had been gone for so long? Surely not. "Alfred, I…"

America cut him off. "So! You're back! How about I show you around the place? I've made a few adjustments! Come on!" He motioned to England and headed down the hallway. England followed, stomach queasy. "Here's my bedroom. Pretty much the same, though I got a new rug because my feet were getting cold in the mornings. That second bed is for Matt, 'cuz he sleeps here a lot nowadays. Check out those moose antlers! Those were totally a gift from Matt's home."

"Matt?"

America shot him a strange look. "Um, yeah, Matt. Canada. Your _new_ colony."

Was it just him or did America look mad again? "Oh, right, carry on."

"Anyway. Your bedroom is still over there and I haven't changed anything in it. I…well…there's some really crappy artwork on the walls that I put up when I was a kid, right after you left. Uh…I'll take it down tonight before you go to bed. . Don't look at it or I'll be embarrassed. And you've already seen the family room and most of the kitchen…wouldn't hurt to take a closer look, though, because I've added some sweet cabinets and a great fireplace to assist with cooking. OH! By the way! You have to taste this freaking awesome stuff that they villagers showed me! It's called coffee! It's amazing; I have to have a cup every morning or I feel all tired and draggy. It's like tea but better, come on, I'll make you some." He ran out of the room, fairly bristling with excitement.

England followed slowly, casting a look towards his bedroom. What kind of artwork had America put up in there? He desperately wanted to go find out, but remembered America's plea for him to not do so. Ah, well. He could pamper America a little and respect his wishes. He walked to the kitchen to see America all but bouncing off the walls, looking through cabinets. "Can I help with anything?"

"No, I'm just looking for the coffee…oh drat, I think I used the last of it this morning…do you mind if I run down to the local village and buy some more? It'll only take like forty-five minutes, I swear."

"Oh, that's fine," England replied, settling himself in a chair.

"Great. Awesome. You wait here," America yanked a jacket off a peg on the wall and ran out the door, forgetting to lock it behind himself.

England sat on the chair, twiddling his thumbs and trying to keep himself seated. Every so often his eyes would stray down the hall to look at the door to his room. What kind of artwork was in there? Why was America so hesitant to let him see it? America was gone right now…just a quick peek and he'd never know… He stood up, peered out the window, saw no sign of his colony, and so scampered down the hallway. Pausing in front of the door momentarily, he pushed it open and stuck his head inside. His room was, indeed, as it ever was, except that the walls seemed to be covered in papers. After another careful glance toward the door through which America disappeared, England stepped into the room, leaving the door cracked behind him.

Nearing the papers, England realized what they were. They were childish drawings, made with different-tinted inks. The young man's eyes grew wider with each picture he examined. Alfred had clearly drawn them when he was younger. Some pictures were of America himself: picking apples, fighting invaders, riding horses, or holding the musket that he had been given. Some pictures were of England: holding black blobs in a pan over a fire, drinking tea, doing needlework, and just standing, smiling. A few pictures featured Canada and his bear friend. Many were of both America and England: studying, running outside, throwing a ball, catching fireflies, embracing…England moved closer to touch the ink lines and was surprised to find that America had narrated each and every picture he drew. The one where he stood holding the gun he was given was marked with these words: "Dear Arthur, I still can't shoot the gun you gave me. I tried but the butt of the gun hit me in the face and gave me a black eye! Gotta keep growing!"

The picture in which England stitched a pattern in a pillow read: "Dear Arthur, today I tried cross-stitching like you like to do. It was really boring and I can't believe you enjoy it. I miss you." England chuckled.

Under the figures of America and England catching fireflies together were the words: "Dear Arthur, are there fireflies at your house? There were a bazillion here last night. I caught fifty hundred! Wish you were here to catch some too, even though you could never catch as many as I did."

On the picture where America picked apples alone: "Dear Arthur, the apples don't taste as good without you. It's not fair you've been gone so long."

One short sentence was scrawled beside the drawing of England enfolding America in his arms. "Please come back." A lump grew in England's throat and he backed away from the paper, blinking rapidly. The child love letters fluttered gently in the draft from the slightly-open door. He returned to the sitting room and was there waiting when America returned, triumphant and bearing a satchel of coffee. Had America noticed his red eyes, he would have blamed it on seasonal allergies, but America did not notice and the issue was temporarily forgotten.

"Alright, dude, prepare to get your mind blown!" America sat a mug of steaming brown liquid in front of England half an hour later, cheeks rosy from the heat and the anticipation. "I put some milk in it to tone it down a bit for you the first time. I also put a little honey in it 'cuz honey makes everything better! What are you waiting for? Down the hatch!"

England sniffed the liquid. It smelled strong and bitter. Nervously, he lifted the mug and took a sip. The flavor flowed over his tongue, as bitter and heady as he'd imagined. He unconsciously shuddered and plunked the mug back down. "Dear heavens!"

"Was it awesome or what?"

"That's…that's _horrible_, Alfred, how do you drink such utter rot?" England cast about for something with which to purge the taste from his mouth. "_Please_ make me some tea so I can forget about the horror of your demon-brew."

America was aghast. "You don't like it? Dude, what's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with _you_?"

"Alright, alright…I'll make you some stupid tea…I dunno where I put the canisters, though…the tea might be kinda old…" He rummaged around in the cabinets.

England frowned. "Old? Have you not been drinking it?"

"No."

"What do you drink, then?"

"Coffee," America replied. England shuddered again. "Oh, and ale. That, too."

"Well, that's very understanda—OI! Who told you that you could imbibe alcohol?"

"Everyone drinks it…"

"If everyone jumped off the side of a ship into the ocean, would you do it also?"

"Of course."

England crossed his arms. "Oh, please."

America took the mug from in front of him and took a swig out of it. "Who would be the hero and save people from drowning if I didn't?" He grinned at the older man, who spluttered.

"That's exactly the kind of harebrained hogwash I'd expect from you." America made no reply and instead walked cheekily away to the stove to monitor the fire for England's tea. England watched him, exasperated with the ease and confidence with which his colony now conducted himself. No longer was he the awkward boy who constantly looked to his big brother for cues as to how to behave himself. His eyes were the same, but there was a wall behind them now, a wall that had never existed before. _He's nearly an adult_, England suddenly realized with an icy wave of desolation.

The pictures were gone by the time England settled into his bed later that night. He stared at the empty walls, trying to remember where the different pictures had been tacked. The room felt empty without them. Why was America so insistent on removing them? Was he ashamed of them? Why? Every child draws pictures; there was nothing of which to be embarrassed. Unless…he was angry and didn't want England to know how he felt for the past few years. England didn't like that thought. America was too happy, too naïve, too full of sunshine to ever be angry. Or, at least, that's how England thought of him. But who knew how America felt nowadays? He had changed so much…

England realized that he didn't really know America at all anymore. What did he do in his spare time? What were his hobbies? Did he collect anything? What was his favorite color? Did he want a pet? Who did he spend most of his time with? Was he seeing any of the girls from the local village? The thought made England angry. America was too young to be courting girls. Or boys, for that matter. It didn't matter to him whether his colony favored lads or lasses. After all, it would be incredibly hypocritical of England to judge America's choice of love interests, after all…

ANYWAY. England tried to empty his mind of the nagging worries buzzing around his skull and focus on the calming sounds of the late-summer crickets outside his window. He had succeeded in falling partially asleep when his door opened quietly, an orb of candlelight slicing through the darkness. "Um…Arthur?"

"Alfred?"

"Yeah. Listen…I…can I sleep with you? For…for old times' sake?" America crept closer to the bed.

England smiled in the semi-darkness. "Yes, of course."

The covers beside him parted and America slid in between the sheets. He blew out the candle and was silent for a long time. England was having trouble falling asleep, however. America broke the quiet. "I missed you."

Gloom crawled over England's chest again and he was momentarily at a loss. "I…I'm sure you kept busy," he replied tartly, then regretted it. He wasn't good at dealing with this emotion business. America didn't reply to that. Feeling suddenly ridiculous, England tried to backtrack. "Listen…about leaving you for so long…I…it wasn't—"

"Let's not talk about it," America mumbled in the darkness. "You're here now and that's what matters, I guess. I just wanted to let you know I missed you, that's all."

_I missed you too,_ England wanted to say. He wanted to explain why he'd been away so long, wanted to say how many times he had wanted to return…but in the back of his mind he knew that sometimes he'd truly forgotten that he had a colony waiting for him. But, but, no one can be expected to remember all the time. _Say something. Talk about how well he's grown, how much more mature he looks, how happy he seems. Tell him you want to pick apples with him again. Tell him he smells so different but also the same, like sunshine and woods and hickory smoke. Say something. Say anything._ But he couldn't decide what he wanted to say first and so abandoned the whole idea and just said "Goodnight, Alfie."

"Goodnight, Arthur," was the sleepy reply.

oOoOo

_Review please! It's one of the only things that encourages me to quit stalling and start writing haha_


	9. Lost and Found

CHAPTER NINE: Lost and Found

Canada came to stay at America's house a few days later. He was visibly sweating when his brother let him through the door. "It's so hot here in the summer…" he panted, putting Kumajirou, who had ridden in his arms, down on a chair. "and I think you have more insects here than I do."

"Yeah! It's such a great place, even the bugs want to live here!" America whooped and embraced his twin. "How've you been? Oh, yeah, Artie's here." He pointed to England, who was sitting and embroidering a handkerchief

"Don't call me Artie!" He grumped. "Hullo, Canada."

Canada hadn't noticed him and now felt unsure of how to deal with his new "big brother." "Oh, h-hello, England. Long time, um, no see." The air in the room stilled and Canada realized that he must have brought up a touchy subject. He floundered in his mind, searching for something to say to diffuse the tension. "S-so, I'm your new colony now, eh?" If possible, the atmosphere became even more thick. That, clearly, was no better of a topic. Feeling rather faint, Canada closed his mouth and sat down beside Kumajirou.

"Hey, would you guys like to go for a walk to the local village?" America asked, winking at Canada to show that he wasn't upset. "I know the ale is fantastic and I hear the girls are cheerful."

England threw aside his sewing and stood. "'Hey' is NOT a word! And what are you going on about girls for? What interest do you have in _girls_?"

America clapped his mentor on the back hard enough to make him grunt. "What interest do I have in girls? You wouldn't know, would you? Don't be such an old fogey!" He laughed and England spluttered, red in the face.

Watching them verbally spar, Canada sighed. Was this his new life? England and America were so noisy. In some ways, going home after being at America's house was like vacation instead of vice-versa. When France was home, there was always a relaxing atmosphere. "I'd like to go for a walk," he said hopefully, wishing they would stop.

They did. America pushed England back down on the seat playfully and ran to get his shoes. England stood back up. "Incorrigible!" He muttered. His eyes roamed the room and landed on Canada, who gulped at the eye contact. "Are you alright? You look peaky."

"Oh, no, I'm fine." He smiled weakly. "Say, England, I was wondering…did—"

He was interrupted by America thumping back into the room, talking happily about the nearby villages and the things he'd seen there. England, in turn, interrupted _him_. "Yes, Alfred, we'll go see the glass maker. You don't have to natter on about it. What were you saying, Canada?"

"N-nothing, really," Canada replied, not wanting to ask the question in front of his brother.

"Let's go!" America cheered, grabbing their hands and pulling them out of the door behind him, ignoring England's protestations.

oOoOo

"Oh, where did that boy go? That coffee rot does strange things to him," England groused, hurrying through the town square with Canada trailing behind. America had spotted a stray cat and run after it, disappearing into the village.

Canada was sweating again. He drew his arm across his brown and walked faster to keep up with England, then stopped. "England, let's sit down for a moment. Maybe he'll come find us." England agreed and found a shady tree under which to sit. They flopped down and relaxed, breathing heavily. After a few seconds, Canada seemed to debate with himself and kept looking from England to the ground. Finally, he spoke and asked the question he'd tried and failed to ask earlier. "I-I was wondering…did…Frances say anything? Whe-when you took me as your colony?"

"Francis? The frog? Say anything? Why would he say anything?"

"Oh, I-I just, I mean, maybe he said s-something about…that h-he would m-miss me or wants to v-visit…or…"

England rolled his eyes. "Canada, France doesn't have legitimate emotions like that. And if he did, they'd be rubbish. As far as visiting goes, I told him to stay away from you, so make sure you let me know if he shows his ugly mug around here." He closed his eyes, enjoying the shade.

Canada made a small noise that went unnoticed. He pulled his knees into his chest and buried his head in them. So it was true. France had willingly relinquished him, even after all the memories and promises. He tried to comfort himself, thinking _England isn't such a bad person, eh? He's a little cold maybe…rather touchy…but not so terrible._ His comfort only went so far, however, because he was a fairly self-aware person and it hadn't slipped his notice that England didn't call him "Matthieu" even though he called his _other_ colony by his proper name. To be fair, though, he hadn't been able to bring himself to call England "Arthur" yet, either. It all felt very disrespectful.

He lost track of how long he huddled under the tree. After what felt like eons, he heard a call. "Yo! Matt! Artie! Come check it out!" America approached the tree, grinning from ear to ear, his arms full of squirming, mewling kittens.

England tried to chastise him again over his name, but couldn't bring himself to when faced with the fuzzy animals. "Well, I say…hullo little fellows. My, but you are fetching, aren't you?" He took a couple into his arms. "Don't cling now!" He giggled, a very un-England-like thing to do.

"Matt! Look!" America stood over Canada, who raised his head blearily. "Dude, have you been _crying_?" Canada only frowned up at his brother in response. It took a second, but America's mind grasped the situation. "Nevermind, have a cat!" He dumped three of the remaining kittens in Canada's lap, keeping one for himself.

Canada snuggled into the fur of the tiny creatures. They were warm and one vibrated as it purred. He felt better. When he looked back up, America was smiling at him. "Can we keep some?"

oOoOo

"Say, America," Canada whispered later that night as they lay in bed, listening to the trees stir outside the window. Ordinarily America would have been sleeping in England's bed, but he'd sooner have gnawed off his own arm than let Canada know. "Is it weird having England back?"

America rolled over to face him. "Yeah," he admitted. "it's funny, I got so used to being angry with him, but as soon as I saw him again I just…couldn't hate him anymore." He laughed harshly. "I want to forget that he ever left. I want things to go back to normal." He was quiet for a minute. "But I can't and they won't."

"You sound so mature tonight, Alfred."

"Yeah? What about you?"

Canada's voice registered surprise. "What about me?"

"How are you feeling? You know…about France and stuff."

Silence. Canada lay still, staring at the ceiling. "I'm…I'm going to forget him. I've decided."

"That's stupid," America replied. "How could you just forget your big brother like that?"

"He wasn't my big brother. He always made that clear."

"Huh? Then what was he?"

A sigh came from Canada's side of the room. "I don't know. Good night, Alfred."

"G'night, Mattie." The room settled into the sleepy hum of insects' nighttime doings outside. Meowing was heard from the kitchen, where the new kitten adjusted to domestic life. America had wanted to name it Liberty, because he thought it sounded pretty. Canada had wanted to name it Kumajirou, until America reminded that he already _had_ a friend named Kumajirou. In the end, England had made an executive decision and that cat was named Mr. Whiskers. The name fit it; it was a serious looking kitten with gunmetal gray fur that stuck up in patches on its back. It avoided being picked up, but melted into a purring heap once it was in someone's arms.

oOoOo

Canada intended to leave in a week or two, but ended up staying longer because England announced that it was time for him to return home for a little while and America took the news badly. He scowled, red in the face, and locked himself in he and Canada's bedroom, muttering angrily. England tried to reason with him for half an hour, then slunk away to pack his things. "I'll be back soon, Alfred. I promise."

"Heard that before," America grumped through the door, which he still refused to open.

Standing to the side, Canada watched the scene with discomfort. He tried to reassure England, but couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't make the situation worse. He sought about for Mr. Whiskers to comfort himself with, but America had taken the kitten with him when he locked himself in the room. Kumajirou had gone to find food. Shut down in all directions, Canada went outside to get out of the house.

America was disconsolate for weeks after England left. He had refused to walk with him to the harbor and subsequently threw out all of the tea in the house. Canada distracted him with games of catch and races in the high sun. It worked during the day, but at night America retreated within himself again and sat silently whittling sticks with a knife.

Canada couldn't bear to abandon his brother in such a state and so stayed with him until England returned some months later. America again refused to go down to the dock to meet his returning big brother; instead he stayed inside the house and tried not to look like he was stalking the windows. When he finally caught a glimpse of England strolling down the lane to the house, he turned red again and fled to his room, once again locking the door. England was thoroughly exasperated when he found out, but presently America emerged from his hiding place as smiling and cheerful as if it had never happened and the whole thing blew over.

Canada finally returned home that evening and collapsed into his very own bed, rubbing his face into the pillow contentedly. The house was cold and smelled vaguely of lemon, leftover from the madeleines he had baked before he left to visit his twin. He suddenly felt very hungry, but couldn't figure out what he wanted to eat. He laid in bed feeling the gnawing in his chest for over an hour before he realized that he was feeling the loneliness of an empty house, not an empty stomach. He had lost the noise, clutter, and general wackiness of America's house, but he had found his sanity. Sometimes he couldn't decide which one he preferred.

_oOoOo_

_Geez, I'm sorry this took so long. My life got complicated._

_Silly America doesn't know how to deal with his emotions. _


	10. A Revolution is Conceived

_Hoorah! My holiday from uni has begun and now I shall have time to write more chapters! Please enjoy!_

_ALSO! Note that this is the same event from one of my other events from "Hey Fever!" Because the two stories occur in the same universe, I had to include the whole pond-event so people who haven't read "Hey Fever" will know what's going on. There's some extra stuff in this chapter that wasn't mentioned in "Hey Fever" though!_

CHAPTER TEN: A Revolution is Conceived

America woke up early one wintry morning, unable to sleep any longer for the excitement he'd been feeling for the past week. England had been absolutely adamant about not wanting to skate on the small pond behind the house, claiming that he had never been one for athletic pursuits. America had begged and begged, promising everything from household chores to lifelong servitude if England would agree to come skating for _only _an hour or two, but it hadn't been successful until last weekend. Fed up with the constant nagging, the Brit finally gave in and said that he would go skating the next Sunday, but _only_ if the weather was favorable and _only_ for an hour. Ignoring the qualifications, America immediately threw himself into sharpening a new pair of ice skates and watching the skies for snow. Now the longed-for morning had arrived and he was ready to make the most out of it.

He ran across the hall, into England's room, and looked at the man who was still nestled in his covers, cocooned in a nest of sleep and quilts. With a whoop, he jumped into the air and onto the bed. "Come on, Arthur! It's time to go skating! Wake up!"

England blearily opened his eyes. "Bloody…bleeding…what the devil are you on about? Skating?" America had slept alone last night after England had kicked him out of bed for being restless with excitement. The sleepy Brit looked at the clock, which read around 7 am. "Oh, bugger, Alfred, it's seven o'clock in the morning and it's Sunday…can't you go back and sleep a bit longer?"

"No way! It's still cold enough outside that the ice will still be safe to skate on, so we have to go now before it melts. Come on, wake up!"

England closed his eyes again, tired. "No. I'll get up in a few hours, I'll make us breakfast, and then we will go skate. The ice won't hurt you! You're too big to be a ninny now." America pouted, but remained silent. "Now, come on. See if you can sleep for a few more hours." He spread his arms to his colony and sighed with sleepy satisfaction when America got under the covers and snuggled up to him. This was exactly how he liked sleeping best. Sunday morning on a snowy day…if only America would stop kicking in his sleep.

They awoke once more around 10:30 and England made good on his promise of breakfast. Afterwards they donned warm coats, boots, scarves, gloves, and hats (which England had knitted himself) and walked down to the pond. America offered to sharpen England's boots but England declined, feeling it strange that his colony was taking responsibility for him. The meadows were frosted with a thick layer of snow that temporarily blinded you when you looked too closely at it. In certain places there were puddles from where it had already started to melt. Their feet crunched through it and left deep footprints, which America examined with delight. "Check it out, Artie! My feet are as big as yours!"

"What?" England looked behind and saw that his colony was right. "Blimey! So they are!" America grinned in smug satisfaction. The reached the pond, a brilliant stretch of shimmering ice. England walked to the edge and stomped on it with his boots. "It's solid. Let's boot up." He was more excited about it than he had anticipated.

America studied the ice, a frown pulling at his lips. This wasn't right. This was dangerous. But England said it was okay…it must be alright. Eventually he shrugged and pulled on his skates, yelling over his shoulder for England to hurry up. He had been so excited that, now that the time was nigh, he was nervous. England awkwardly walked over beside him, uncomfortable in his skates. "Land's sakes, Alfred, you're as tall as I am now. You better not try to hold on to me for balance on the ice. You'll send us both sprawling!" The younger nation laughed and launched himself onto the ice, gliding effortlessly across the stretch of frozen pond. Once or twice he lost his balance, but regained it quickly and squashed his fear for the purpose of showing off to his companion. England gingerly clunked onto the ice and promptly fell on his behind.

"You look like a drunk penguin," America cackled, amused at England's repeated attempts to stand. "do you need help?"

"Sod off!" England yelled back, furiously embarrassed. America skated over and took his hand, helping him to his feet. "Bother, Alfred, I said I didn't need help," the Brit mumbled, simultaneously grateful and annoyed.

America just shrugged. He led England twice around the pond, giving him pointers as to how he could position his feet to keep his skates straight and how to engage his core to keep him upright. England learned fast and was ready to skate on his own long before America let go of his hands. Even though there were two layers of mittens separating their skin, it still made America's hand tingle to know that they were so close. Once he realized he was staring at their hands, he looked up and accidentally met England's eyes. In that instant, he didn't know what to do. He couldn't look him the eyes and he couldn't look away. A thrill shot up his back and he felt his ears burn, so he dropped England's hands and skated away as fast as he could. "If you can't skate by now, it's your own fault!" He yelled merrily over his shoulder, trying to disguise the discomfort he felt.

Clenching his teeth, England moved forward glide by glide. He was doing it! He could skate! After circling the pond a few times to build his confidence, he stopped and attempted to skate backwards. It took many tries, but he eventually succeeded and was gratified by the look of shock on America's face. _Let's see that braggart crow now! I'll be better than him in no time! _

America's stomach knew it was lunchtime before he himself did. Hunger fueled by the exercise, he skated over to the edge of the pond and clumped off, determined to have first dibs on the sandwich materials he and England had packed for lunch. He changed into winter boots and settled himself on a log, then chose the choicest sandwich meats out of the basket. "Hey, Arthur, come over here and eat something. It's time to get off the ice; the weather has gotten too warm and I'm worried about the strength of the ice," he called out, feeling the sun's rays pierce his jacket. It was warmer today than he'd expected.

England scoffed at the warning. "No way, Alfred. You're just worried I'll get better than you at skating. Listen to big brother and stop worrying!" He had been practicing tiny hops from one foot to another and was considering progressing to small jumps on the ice. Now that he was comfortable on his skates, he was having a massive amount of fun and didn't feel like stopping. America mumbled something else, but England paid no attention. Wasn't _he_ supposed to be the worrywart of the pair? When did America get so conscientious? Strange things were happening. Sometimes England caught America looking over at him only to quickly look away again and pretend to be interested in something else. _This is how brothers are supposed to act,_ he thought, closing his eyes and feeling the sun on his face. _We're supposed to be concerned for each other. _He never caught Canada acting this way, though. Canada wasn't a bad little brother, he was just…different. He and America were different and his own relationships with the pair of them were different. England hated comparing the two in his mind.

Shaking his troublesome thoughts away, England focused on his feet and took a timid hop, then another, then another. It wasn't so hard. The hops got bigger, as did his faith in himself. _Watch this! I'll do a jump right in the middle of the pond! That'll show old Alfred what his big brother can do!_ He skated to the middle and pushed himself into the air. It would have been a respectable jump, except that the ice broke with an enormous CRACK as soon as his foot came slamming down. True to America's unheeded warnings, the sun had weakened the ice and England's skate cut right through it. His other ankle twisted a bit when it landed because the skate had become trapped in the splintered ice. Cracks extended in all directions around him. If they weren't so terrifying, they might have been beautiful; it looked like he was standing in the middle of an immense snowflake. America cried out from the shore and England had only time to look up, shocked, before the ice collapsed and he was dumped into the water.

Submerged, England's senses melded together into a slurry of hazy perception. He was cold, so cold. His heavy skates were pulling him to the bottom, so he kicked to surface himself. The problem was, when he reached the top, he knocked his head hard into the ice above. He groped for the hole, but found only more ice. Where was the hole? He had lost it. His lungs began to burn, his head hurt from slamming into the ice, his skin felt like it was on fire, and his mind gave way to panic. Seconds stretched into hours as he clawed at the cruel, unyielding ice above his face. He could see the sunlight through the frozen water…then it became obscured by the tendrils of blood leaking from his fingers, which were cut up by his frantic scratching on the jagged crystals.

What would happen to his country if he died? What would happen to America? America… The lack of oxygen in his brain finally overtook him and he drifted away to blackness. The pain subsided. If this was death, it wasn't so bad, really.

oOoOo

Waking up was like breaking the surface of a warm bath. England gasped and opened his eyes to find America standing over him, glowering, a bowl of what looked like soup in his hands. "Blimey…I feel awful," England moaned, reaching hungrily for the bowl. He could feel the hunger in the pit of his stomach.

America pulled the soup away from England's reaching hand. "You scared me, England." England looked up to his eyes, startled by the coldness of his tone. "I told you not to skate on that ice, that it was thin. You almost died. I was terrified."

Color rushed into England's cheeks. He remembered America's warnings, and he remembered ignoring them. "I…I know. I'm sorry. I really am."

"You need to start listening to me," America said stonily.

England chuckled. Silly lad. "Alright, alright."

America moved closer, angry. "I'm serious, England!"

England frowned and stopped laughing. "What's with this 'England' rubbish? You're my little brother. You call me by my human name." He pulled the soup from America's hands and spooned it into his mouth.

The taste of oyster was soft and accented with cream. He was so absorbed in his soup, that he didn't watch America's face as he answered. "No," America said slowly. "I'm not."

"…not what?"

"Your little brother. I'm not your little brother."

The Brit's head snapped up and he stared at America, trying to understand what he was hearing. "Of course you are," he snapped. "Don't be a dolt, Alfred." Was it just him or had America grown even taller overnight? Had his eyes always been that serious?

The younger blonde man jabbed himself in the chest with his thumb. "I'm America. All these beautiful lands around us…this is me. America."

Cold that had nothing to do with last night seeped through England's veins. "What are you on about?" He whispered weakly. It was as if everything had changed overnight. Did something happen that he didn't remember? Why was his colony acting so strange?

Taking the bowl of soup from England's grasp and setting it down, America sat on the side of England's bed and took his hand. "I've realized something. You, England, are the most precious person in the world to me and I would do anything for you. Anything." His eyes bored into the other's.

"Of course," England said. His heartbeat increased in speed and he felt distinctly ill at ease. Looking America in the face had become difficult. "You're my brother."

America stood up and pulled himself to his full height, looking down at England.. "No, I'm not. I am America. These lands are me."

Green eyes narrowed angrily and bushy eyebrows contracted. "You are having delusions of grandeur. You _are_ my brother. You are MY colony." His voice was sharp. Eyes still locked, America backed up towards the door. An unspoken "not for long" hung in the air between them. "You're bleeding, by the way," England pointed out, trying to bring the conversation back to something resembling normalcy. "You should wash that wound. Where did you get it?"

America put his hand to his head and felt a mass of clotted, dried blood covering his forehead and matting his hair. "I must have hit my head on the ice when I jumped in after you." He patted the area gingerly.

Guilt stabbed England's chest and his defenses fell. America had hurt himself saving his life…he should be allowed to be irrational for a little while. "Alfred…come crawl in bed here and just rest." He held out a hand, offering peace.

"America," America corrected. England blushed again at the rejection. "And I'm old enough to sleep in my own bed now." England watched him walk towards the door, stop, and turn around. "I love you, England," He blurted, then disappeared.

England sat back against his pillows, breathing slowly to calm himself. Of course America loved him. They were brothers, for heaven's sake. Weren't they? Alfred wouldn't…no. No. Alfred would never do anything to change that. This was a phase. Just a phase.

oOoOo

America leaned against the wall in his room and gritted his teeth. It was only last night that he'd made his decision and already he was having second thoughts. Still, though it stung now, though it would doubtlessly hurt even more later, he knew this had to be done. Sitting in the living room holding England's cold, motionless body had cemented his resolve. For the sake of drying the waterlogged Brit, America had removed his clothing layer by layer (save for his knickers) and had uncovered an entirely new side of his mentor. Thin white scars shone on his chest and his back, and a tiny patch of fine blonde hair nestled between his pectorals. England was slim, almost feminine, and the un-tanned portions of his skin were so pale they were almost translucent. America could, with his finger, just trace small blue blood vessels down the man's torso.

England was beautiful. America sweated with the realization of what his thoughts betrayed. Sure, he was at the age where he should start becoming interested in love and sex, but…not with England. He knew enough about how relationships worked to know that this wasn't how it was supposed to be. They were brothers, for god's sake!

But they weren't, really. The young colony couldn't make up his mind. Just what were they? He knew what he wanted them to be. What did England want? If America went through with his plans, if he overthrew England's rule and established himself as a true country and an equal…would it even matter? Would England hate him forever, or would he understand and accept America's decision?

Either way, rebellion was hard. It meant war, and war meant death. Every day America felt more and more in tune with the citizens of his lands. Truly, he was meant to embrace their fate as his own. Still shaking, he went outside and pumped water with which to wash off his head. The wound stung with the water touched it, but gradually numbed. Blood and water covered his hands as he cleaned the cut. He could smell the blood; he smelled copper and salt. War meant blood, lots of blood. He hated blood. This blood was his own, but when the war hit, it would be that of his people.

It would be England's as well.

America fell to his knees by the water pump, clenching his fists until the bloody water squeezed out from between his fingers. Warm tears dropped from his cheeks onto his reddened knuckles. _I'm sorry, Arthur. I'm so sorry. I don't know what else to do. _He took a deep breath. _I'm in love with you. I'm in love with you, Arthur, and I don't know what to do. _Unable to look at it anymore, he washed the blood from his hands and splashed his face with water to hide his shameful face.

oOoOo

America began immediately to train. He ran harder, toted heavier and heavier weights around to build muscle, and spent time every day practicing with his gun. His attitude towards England was the same as it always was, but his eyes were grim. Nothing was enough; he had to run another mile, lift another pound, shoot another target. At night he read books on philosophy and politics. Little by little he grew and, one day, realized that he was taller than England.

Preoccupied with his own affairs, England largely ignored his colony's strange behavior, but was particularly spooked when he noticed that America was actually starting to add bulk to his physique. He walked outside on an early spring afternoon to find America lifting weights. "Al-, er, _America_," he corrected condescendingly, "what are you doing?" America wasn't one for organized exercise—he usually preferred to roam around the hills.

"You know, working out and stuff," America replied cheerfully. "Gotta stay in shape!"

The problem was, America wasn't just staying fit. He was building muscle. England turned away, a strange new feeling collecting in the bottom of his heart. It was fear. The first hint of the Revolutionary War touched his mind, but he shoved it away with all of his mental will.

That would never happen. Ever. America loved him.

It was only later that he realized how incredibly right and also cripplingly wrong he was.

_oOoOo_

_Ooooh I dread the coming chapters! But there's a sad beauty in them!_


	11. Declaration

_This chapter kind of hurts my heart haha. _

_I've tried to pay attention to the timeline of actual history, but please forgive me the details._

CHAPTER ELEVEN: Declaration

For the first time in his life, but certainly not the last, England was so angry at America he didn't know quite what to do. The sullen young man sat on a chair before him, shirtless, with stripes painted on his face and feathers in his hair. He mirrored England's pose; his arms were crossed tightly and a scowl twisted his face. "What were you thinking?" England finally burst out, standing in front of his colony.

"I told you not to tax the colonists any further. I told you it would bring trouble," America replied, looking at the floor.

"And I told _you_ that this was the way it was going to be, like it or no. And instead of being mature about the whole deal, you do this. I'm disgusted." England paced back and forth, running his hands through his hair. "You know, I thought they were telling tales, my chaps, when they said the you were being foolish and rebelling. And then I go and find you standing on a ship in the middle of the night, _hardly wearing any clothes at all_, rouged up like one of the bloody savages, throwing precious, expensive tea into the Boston Harbor!" America was silent, so England continued his rant. "You know, I'd expect this sort of behavior from the local ignorant chavs, but from _you_? Never."

Finally, America spoke. "Those 'local ignorant chavs' are my citizens, so watch what you say about them."

"They're _my_ citizens," England snapped, looking his colony dead in the eye. "and I'll decide what to say about them. You had best stop this chuntering about 'your land' and 'your citizens' or it's going to wind up getting you in a deeper mess than you know."

The problem was, though, that America _did _know. The two stared at each other with tight faces, and England broke the gaze first. There was something scary in the boy's face tonight-something too serious, too grown up. It terrified England, but he did not want to show it, so he turned his back. Behind him, he heard America stand up. "Stop taxing my people without giving us representation in your government," the teen said forcefully, but with a quavering catch in his voice. "I'm warning you." England whirled around heatedly, but was greeted with the sight of only an empty chair and feathers on the floor.

oOoOo

Slowly, unstoppably, like a tide creeping up the sandy shore, the unrest in the Colonies grew over two years, bringing with it shows of American patriotism and civil disobedience. America and his mentor talked less and less as both tried fruitlessly to act normal. Through it all, England figuratively put his fingers in his ears and hummed, trying, begging, praying that ignoring the obvious would make it go away.

Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he took a ship back to Great Britain and shut himself in his house for a few days. He lay in bed, feeling the softness of his sheets; they were so unlike the rougher home-woven cloths at America's house. Unable to sleep, he dreamed awake in the darkness. This was a phase, America's temperamental teenage years. Hadn't he himself been "full of piss and vinegar" as the colonists said? America was a bright, energetic, handsome lad. Soon he would be in England's arms again and everything would be as it ought. Just like he'd promised the boy, they would be together forever. This was nothing; a storm to be weathered.

If he was honest with himself, he wasn't surprised when the news of Lexington and Concord reached Great Britain. But instead of allowing it to bother him, he turned his face away and watched clouds out the window.

oOoOo

The moment America laid eyes on the Frenchman, he felt sick. Planning a fight between himself and England was one thing, but asking for or receiving help from his mentor's worst enemy? He was despicable, he was the worst, and he was ensuring that England would hate him forever. But the truth was, he couldn't fight this war alone. He couldn't do it.

His colonists were overflowing with zeal and righteous anger. They were ready, aching, champing at the bit to be released and fight for the right to become their own nation. The battles of Lexington and Concord had been fought close to a year ago and soon this revolution would have to be openly acknowledged. As he passed through the towns, listening to and participating in snippets of conversation in crowded bars, America couldn't help but swell with pride at the patriotism streaming from the men and women like water between the rocks of a dam.

What the would-be American army was _not _filled to brim with, however, was supplies of any kind. They had home-field advantage, sure, but a British army was bound to be better fed, better clothed, better financed, and better trained. For that matter, America didn't even think the Americans could afford _uniforms_, let alone weapons, ammunition, and rations. If they tried to wage true war in this condition, it would be a bloodbath and a disgrace. His citizen's lives and his relationship with England would be sacrificed for nothing. He had to win this revolution, or die trying.

This was where France came in. America uneasily sent a message to France to ask for a meeting, worried for a month about England finding out about the meeting, then, exhausted from worry, finally arrived at the meeting itself. Fortunately, France was not the kind of man around which it was easy to feel awkward. He was all charm and grace, and, after swearing secrecy about this conversation, he made it no secret that he was impressed with the task America was attempting to undertake. "A revolution, hmm? My, Angleterre won't like zat one bit. 'ow prepared do you feel to start zis war?"

"Mentally, very. Physically, very. Materially…not at all." America picked at the food on the plate in front of him; he and France had decided to meet at a small pub on the Canadian border. "That's why I sent word to you. My men don't have much money. England won't even recognize this as an actual revolution yet, even though the first battles have been won."

France exhaled silently. So this was it. England's colony was asking for his help in becoming independent. There were enormous political implications in any action he took from here out. The most important thing was to find out how likely it was that America could win this war, because if he did not, France could waste a lot of resources as well as any civility there might exist between himself and England. However, if this healthy young lad did win, France's aid would secure him first dibs in political alliances and friendships with the new nation. "What do you need?"

"Weapons. Guns, cannons, bullets. And money for things like food and clothing," America admitted. "because at this point it's looking like half my soldiers aren't going to have shoes. It's gonna be hard to fight without shoes, you know?"

"_Mon Dieu,_ Amerique, you don't even 'ave _shoes_? 'ow are you expecting to be worz 'alf a franc in battle if you don't 'ave ze basics?" France sat back, disturbed.

America blushed. "I know, it sounds really bad, but we've got a lot of heart."

France snorted. "'eart does not win wars. Guns win wars. Live soldiers win wars, not soldiers stumbling around in ze forests dressed in rags, and starving. You have grown beyond my imagination, Amerique, and you 'ave internal fortitude, I'll give you zat. But you are not ready to fight and you are not ready to die." He lit a cigarette and puffed on it. "I can not 'elp you."

"Please, look, France, I am ready. The battles have already begun…we've…we've put so much effort into this and we're not going to—"

"I can not 'elp you. My relationship wiz Angleterre is already strained as it is. I can not afford to 'elp a colony fight a losing war."

Shoving the last few bites in his mouth, America stood up and threw down his napkin. "Fine. Don't help. But I'm going to do this. I'm going to fight for my independence, to the death if I have to, and I'm going to win. I swear to you, I'm going to win." His passion was drawing stares from the other diners, but he did not care.

France took another puff of the tobacco, staring off into the distance. "You don't know war," he said softly.

"And you don't know my people," America fired back. "We are going to fight, we are going to win, and we are going to be a great nation."

Flicking the cigarette away, France looked the young man in the eye again. "Prove it."

America could not prove it, so he strode away, leaving a good deal of his pride behind. His resolve did not waver, though, and he was more determined than ever. With or without help, this war would happen. He didn't know it then, but he hadn't seen the last of France.

oOoOo

England's home office was quiet, something that hadn't happened in weeks. He leaned back and massaged his temples, simultaneously relishing the peace and trying to quell a headache. More trouble had come in from the Colonies and England was up to his ears in effort to ignore it; barely a day went by that he wasn't beleaguered with news of some fresh devilry of America's making.

Today, however, England was settled comfortably in his favorite chair when a maid came in to announce that his boss needed to see him without any delay. More disgruntled that he was being forced to relocate than worried about what his boss would have to say to him, he exchanged his house slippers for street shoes and briskly walked down the road to where he was told his boss would be waiting for him. True to the maid's words, the King was awaiting his arrival, but he was clearly agitated. England felt a prickle run up his spine at the look on his boss's face. "What in the BLOODY BLAZES is THIS?" The human yelled as soon as he caught sight of England. "Some of the troops stationed in the Colonies had this sent to me." Hands shaking, he handed over a document, which England gingerly took.

_IN CONGRESS, JULY 4, 1776_

_The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America,_

_When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. _

The thirteen united States of America. England squinted at the paper, sure he was misunderstanding it. "It becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another…" _Dissolve the political bands…dissolve…_ England read and reread the words. Nothing in the paragraph made sense until he reached the final word. Separation. His heart iced in his chest and he suddenly became sure that he did not want to read a single word more. He cut a glance to his boss to gauge his expression. The man was grim, but noticed the glance and motioned for him to finish reading.

England read on, his disbelief and anguish growing with every sentence.

_The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States._

Injuries and usurpations. Tyranny. The document was berating the King, but England felt that each accusation was leveled at him personally. The word "tyranny" tasted acrid in his mouth, his lips formed each syllable again and again, willing it to change meaning or disappear. A tyrant. America considered him a tyrant.

_He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good._

England's hand shook. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then blundered through more of the grievances.

_For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us: _

_For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:_

_For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world: _

_For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent: _

_For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury: _

_For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences_

Taxes…America had warned him about taxes. Didn't the boy understand that taxes were of vital importance to the running of a country? What did he want? He knew nothing about government. England finished the list of complaints and took another deep breath. Hopefully that was the worst of it.

_In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury._

The list was _not_ the worst of it. England found himself missing the objections.

_We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends._

The world leapt into clarity all at once as the word "war" seemed to glow off the page, as red as the evening skies of which sailors dream. This paper was no longer simply a letter of dissatisfaction, no, now it took on an entirely more sinister form. England's breath became labored and he resisted the urge to sit down as the realization broke on his head and dripped down his face. This was treason, and the penalty for treason was death.

_We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor._

Unwillingly, with much trembling, he folded the Declaration and lifted his eyes to meet those of the King. Twice he opened his mouth, but the words were stuck far below his throat and he couldn't force them out into the exposed air. The King reached for and took the paper from his hands. "You know what this means," he rumbled, wearily lowering himself into his seat. "don't you?"

"Yes."

"This is treason, and it can not go unpunished." The King rustled papers on his desk, not looking at the man before him. "I give them credit for having more courage than I expected, but it is a fool's courage. Even armed with pluck, they can not stand against Great Britain. We will have true war and they will put forth their best men, but they will die. Once we have won, we must crush any thoughts of every trying something like this again. Do you understand?"

"Yes," England whispered, his voice as thin as a whisper.

The King finally locked eyes with England, his expression softening. "I know how fond you have been of the boy. I'm sorry. I really am. But this," he slammed his hand down on the Declaration lying on his desk, "this is too dangerous to let go." England looked long and hard at the paper under the King's hand, then back at his boss, whose face was tight and unyielding. He bowed low and turned to leave. As his hand touched the doorknob, however, the King made one last remark. "I'm ordering my troops to treat him as any other. If he chooses to fight, we will kill him."

There was nothing to say. England could only jerk a nod before escaping the room.

oOoOo


	12. Choosing Sides

_Hello! I hope you all have had a very happy holiday!_

_Please note that this chapter spans roughly from 1776 to 1780._

CHAPTER TWELVE: Choosing Sides

_Ragged_, America thought, surveying his troops. _We are a ragged group._ His men stood proud and straight, though their eyes betrayed hunger of multiple kinds. Their faces were alight with anticipation. America had been put in charge of a small squadron of men and he was determined to do this commanding thing right. Insignificant skirmishes had been going on between American and British soldiers for a year, but the situation had changed with the Declaration of Independence. No word had yet come from England or his boss, but the stationed British soldiers had doubtlessly sent copies of the document to their homeland. England might well be reading it now; America shivered at the thought. As much as it had broken his heart to help write it, so it also must have killed the older man to read it.

It was distracting, thinking so much about England, how he was taking the news, how angry he was, worrying that would never want to see his former colony again. If America allowed himself to get caught up in a vortex of rumination, it would completely derail his day. He had no time for that; he was responsible for his soldiers now and he would not, could not fail. Movement caught his eye and he turned to find one of his lieutenants standing a few feet away, his face a pleasant mix of excitement and surprise. "Lieutenant Gallagher," America acknowledged the man, turning to face him properly.

"Captain Jones, sorry to interrupt your thoughts, it's…the troops just received something I figured you'd like to see."

"A shipment? To us? What is it?"

The soldier took a step back and motioned. "Come have a look!" He led America through camp until he reached the tiny supply tent, which was surrounded by men. "Everyone step aside, let the captain through!" Once they reached the tent, he pointed to a pile of wooden crates.

America opened the top of the first box to find that it was filled with shoes. Incredulous, he opened another to find it filled with uniforms. Another long box was filled with muskets. There was a box with ammunition and powder, and a box with medical supplies. Finally, and most importantly to America, the pile included a crate filled with wholesome, hardy food. "Where d'you think it came from?" The lieutenant peeked over America's shoulder, full of awe.

"I'm not sure, but I have an idea," America replied, still studying the supplies. Finally, he pulled an object out of the food box and handed it to the man, who took it.

"A croissant?"

"Yep," America replied cheerfully. "This came from France."

The lieutenant paled and then colored. "Really? He whispered, unbelieving. "Does…does this mean France has decided to join the revolution? Have they decided to help us?"

America took the croissant back and bit into it, savoring the crisp buttery taste. "I dunno."

oOoOo

England appeared on Canada's doorstep about a year and a half later than the colony had expected. For three years now, the teenager had witnessed wounded men returning from the battles that were raging on his borders and heard numerous reports of the chaos happening in his southern neighbor's land. This whole revolution business hadn't come as a shock to Canada; he'd known from the beginning what was going to occur. He'd watched as the Stamp Act, the Tea Act, and Intolerable Acts steamrolled over America's patience, and he'd watched as the Boston Tea Party, the prohibition of trade with England, and the Battle of Bunker Hill ignited forest fires of patriotic drive in most of the American colonists. The Declaration had been an interesting addition, but not entirely unpredictable.

_There are two possible reasons for why England is here,_ Canada decided as he wrapped himself in a blanket and trudged to the door. The first reason might be that the Brit was furious and had come to order/talk Canada into joining the war against the Americans. The second reason might be that the Brit was emotionally compromised and needed comfort from someone who looked sort of like America. As creepy as it would be, Canada preferred this option. He would happily offer England a cup of hot tea and an ear for his ranting. He would not, however, happily join a war that had very little to do with himself.

One look at England's face when the door opened told Canada quite clearly that he would not be providing a comforting shoulder for crying that afternoon. The sandy blonde man's lips were drawn tight and his bushy eyebrows were contracted. Canada involuntarily gulped. "H-hey England…nice weather, eh?"

"No." England replied acidly.

"Oh. So…um…w-what's up?"

"May I come inside?"

"S-sure." Canada stepped aside and let the other into his house.

England barely crossed the threshold before he let loose a short, outraged yell, from which Canada recoiled. "I'M SO BLOODY ANGRY I'M ABOUT TO LOSE MY RAG RIGHT HERE AND NOW!" He stamped into the kitchen and slammed a cup down on the counter.

"I'll put some water on to heat for tea," Canada offered, sneaking a worried glance at his pottery.

England abandoned the cup and stormed aimlessly around the small room. "I could murder him, I could pan his bleeding head in without a second thought. How could he do this? Has he no heart? Doesn't he know what he's doing? That ballsed-up, rat-arsed, twatting spod! I hope he chokes! I hope he's boiled alive!"

Canada had gone very white; it was unnerving to hear such sentiments against his twin. "L-listen, I'm sure Alfred only did what he thought was b-best…"

"What? Who said anything about Alfred?" England was confused. "He's a twat alright, but I'm talking about that complete bastard, Francis!"

Francis. Even the name sent a tingle up Canada's spine. "Eh?"

England made a face as he watched Canada light a fire over which to place the teakettle. "What's this? Did you not hear about Francis' absurd alliance with my rebellious twonk of a colony?"

Now here was something completely surprising to the Canadian. He paused, inadvertently burning his hand on the stove. "Alliance?"

"You really haven't heard?" England ran his hand through his hair. "Well, it goes like this. Apparently France has been secretly sending aid to Alfred for two years and, just a few months ago they signed some barmy agreement saying that France would formally recognize America as a country and help them fight for independence."

Pained, Canada stuck his burnt finger in his mouth and turned where England couldn't see his face. So. France was fighting for America. He drew down a can of strong black tea and opened it. The bold smell tingled his nose and gave him an excuse to sniff heavily without looking suspicious. He tried to measure out the amount of leaves needed, but found that his vision had been obscured by tears that threatened to fall. England was behind him, though, still rattling on about how angry he was and Canada refused to show a weepy face. He blinked until the tears streaked down his cheeks, then wiped them away fiercely. Then, like the steam rising from the teakettle, he felt bitterness fill his chest, chasing away the moisture in his eyes and making him grit his teeth.

Why was it America? Why was it ALWAYS America? Canada stabbed a spoon into the tea leaves, scooping some into a linen tea bag and scattering more across the counter. England didn't love him; he never had and Canada knew it. It was clear from the way they talked, the names they used with each other, the polite cordiality with which they interacted. England loved America, though to what extent and in what way Canada hadn't figured out yet. But whatever flavor the love, it was there; every time England looked at America, tenderness and affection poured silently out of his face. It was announced in the gentleness with which England used to tousle his charge's hair. It was carved in every shadow of pain that seized the European country when he was reminded that he was in a war with his colony. Canada had always stood to the side and watched; he didn't mind because he had Francis.

But now…France was fighting for America. They had a treaty. They were allies. There must be trust between the two of them, friendship even. France was fighting for America the way he hadn't fought for Canada. The gnawing realization stung far more than the burnt finger. He leaned against the counter, eyes closed and breathing labored. America already had England's love; he didn't need France's also, right? Why…why couldn't it be _him_ for once? What had he done so wrong to lose France from his life? Was he so troublesome, so boring of a person as to chase away all who got close to him? Was America so much better, with his bright personality and his boundless dreams?

Canada knew it was unreasonable to be angry with his twin, but he couldn't help himself. If he hadn't started this ridiculous revolution, everything would be like it was before. There would be no alliance between America and France. America was always looking for attention. Was he happy now that he'd gotten it from both England AND France? Everything Canada had ever had, America had found some way to overshadow or steal. Every time, Canada sat passively by and watched. But not this time.

"I'll fight!" Canada proclaimed, spinning around to face his guest, who stood shocked.

"I beg your pardon?" England had been in the middle of a rant about the absurdity of the French soldiers' uniforms and couldn't imagine how Canada had jumped from one conversation point to the other.

Still heated with his decision, Canada took a trembling step towards the other man. "I'll fight with you in the revolution. I volunteer my men."

Surprise gave way to suspicion in England's eyes. "You're choosing to fight against Alfred? I thought you two were close." Canada had no reply and simply looked at him. "You're serious? Well, I certainly won't turn you down. I'm actually shipping out to the front lines myself in a fortnight…I'll alert my generals and have them work you and your troops into our battle plans." He stood silent for a moment. "I'm proud of you, Canada. I wasn't planning on forcing you to fight your brother, but clearly you know what's important. You have good common sense. More than Alfred, that's for sure."

Canada nodded dumbly. Behind him, the teakettle began to whistle.

oOoOo

Both America and France thought they'd heard wrong when they were informed, months later, about the new addition to the war. "No, wait, say that again," America demanded of the soldier who sat across the table near the campfire, eating breakfast at sunrise.

The young soldier shoveled another spoonful of mush in his mouth and swallowed before repeating the news. "I said the brigade down at Savannah swears they saw Canadian troops just last week. Rumor has it that Canada has joined the war on Britain's side."

America laughed, incredulous at the thought. "They must be mistaken. There's no way Canada is involved in the war, and especially not with England."

"Yeah, they said they were real surprised by it too and thought it must be a scare tactic by the damn redcoats. They said they became convinced when they saw something suspicious and decided to spy on the British camp. That's where they found out the soldiers were from Canada."

France entered the conversation. "What do you mean 'suspicious?'"

The soldier downed the rest of his bowl and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, earning a disapproving glare from his questioner. "Well, it's funny, but they said the leader of that squad of soldiers looked a lot like _you_, Captain Jones. They swore he had the same face, except more pansy-like, with longer hair, you know? Anyway, they followed him to make sure it wasn't you and that's when they overheard some of the soldiers talking about the new Canadian recruits. I gotta go check my gun; excuse me, sir." He headed off to his tent, taking his empty bowl with him.

America and France stayed silent for a minute, then slowly met each other's eyes. "Matt," America choked out, appalled by what he'd heard. "They must have seen Matt."

"It might be someone completely different, Amerique, don't assume ze worst," France said, trying to soothe his ally. He didn't believe his own words, but hoped America would.

He didn't. "It was Matt, France, you know it was. Who else looks just like me and is from Canada? God, I can't believe this! What the hell is he doing? He knows how important this is to me!" He slammed his fist down on the small table, attracting the stares of many nearby soldiers. "Damn it, Matt, why?"

Honestly, France couldn't think of any reason Canada would willingly agree to enter the war. "Angleterre must 'ave forced 'im into conscription. Zere is no ozzer sensible explanation."

America contemplated this idea for a while, then shook his head. "No, Arthur knew how useless Matt was at stuff like this. He'd never force him into fighting. I mean, Arthur even told me once, he said 'Alfred, your brother just isn't cut out for battle. You'd best look after him or he'll find trouble.' He doesn't need him; he's got a ton more soldiers than I do. I don't even think he'd _want_ Matt to be in a war." He buried his face in his hands. "I want to think that Matt didn't choose this, but I really can't…god, WHY? Why is this happening? Why would he do this to me? We're twins, for god's sake! Damn it!"

A comforting hand was laid on his shoulder by France, who sighed deeply. "I don't know, Amerique. Zis doesn't sound like ze Matthieu I know. Maybe I should go 'ave a chat wiz 'im and see if I can figure it out."

America snorted. "He's not gonna talk to you. He's mad at you."

"What? 'e's mad at _moi_? Why?"

"'Cuz you let Arthur take him as a colony, that's why. He figures you got tired of him or something," America growled, getting more angry by the minute. He knew Canada wouldn't want him to say these things to France, but he was too upset to care to censor himself.

France sat back, aghast. "Truly? You speak ze truth?"

"Yeah, unlike Matt I'm not a _phony_ and a _liar._"

"Huh." France looked away thoughtfully. "I 'ad no idea. You know, zis might not 'ave anyzing to do wiz you after all. Zis is all my fault."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Don't worry about it," the Frenchman replied, standing and stretching. "I blame myself for zis and I will fix it. In ze meantime, you focus on what you are doing. Matthieu or no Matthieu, I believe zat you can win zis war. I 'ad planned on waiting until it was official to tell you zis, but Spain has also decided to declare war on Angleterre." He winked at the younger man.

America sprang from his seat, excitement back in his grin. "For real? Spain is joining us? That's—that's great! Oh, man!" Most of his cheer returned, he punched the air repeatedly.

"I 'ad a 'unch zat would cheer you up," chuckled France, amused as ever by the boy's enthusiasm.

Suddenly a trumpet rent the air and shouts arose from the borders of the camp. "Captain! We've spotted the enemy!" An older soldier skidded down the hill behind where America and France stood and gestured wildly. "They're attacking from the North!"

America grabbed his gun and ran up the hill without hesitation. "EVERYONE TO YOUR POSITIONS!" He yelled over his shoulder at the rest of the men. "FOLLOW ME!"

oOoOo

A bloody year passed. The winter of 1779 would go down as the cruelest winter of the entire 18th century and no one knew it better than the American patriots who haunted the North American woods, waiting for battle. In fields they camped, or between trees in a place they had diligently cleared of rocks. Their shoddy tents mostly kept out the sleet and rain, but did little against the cold of the snow that piled overnight. Their supplies had long since become thin and some of the men in the poorer brigades found themselves without shoes or adequate clothing. Even though fires were a risk and sometimes brought the British, it was more dangerous to face the possibility of dying from frostbite without them. It was even worse for the men that nursed wounds—the pain of one's own spilt blood freezing and thawing was excruciating.

America had contemplated war for a long time, but now found that he had drastically romanticized it in his own mind. He'd known there would be death, but he couldn't have imagined the overwhelming emotion when a trusted, loved comrade died right beside you in battle. He'd known there would be blood, but he didn't know how familiar he would become with the smell and the way it soaked through your boots on warm days. In most ways, he thought it a miracle he was still alive, after all the men who'd died in his arms, spilling scarlet on the ground. Even worse were the soldiers who slowly wasted away in front of a fire, being consumed by their wounds though they refused to willingly succumb. In the end they had no choice. Death came and they were buried, or left, like all of the other valiant dead.

America had fancied himself to be all grown up before the Revolution, but, surveying a gory tobacco field where many of his friends lay dead, he knew he'd been wrong. Humans' lives were delicate, like spider silk, so easily broken; one great gust of wind and they fluttered away. America knew he wasn't like them, but he felt their pain and grieved their deaths all the same. His heart had wrenched within him when he found out that England had joined the British forces as a soldier, though he tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that countries couldn't die…could they? He hadn't been sure ever since the night the pond broke. Finally, unable to bear not knowing, he consulted France. "Say, France, I'd been wondering something," he said conversationally one day, during a lull in action.

"What 'as been on your pretty mind?" France, allured nowadays by America's adult-like physique, leaned in close.

America unconsciously took a step back; it was a learned action after five years of being allied with France. "I…I dunno how to ask this but…I was…well, I'd heard England had…er, that's not important, what I meant was…can countries die? Like you and I? Can we die?"

The question surprised France and he closed his eyes, thinking. "It is very rare," he finally replied.

'Rare' didn't sate America and he pressed further. "I know we generally have better reflexes and quicker healing, but, like, if I got shot in the heart right now by British forces, would I die?"

France leaned back and laughed. "Relax, my dear boy, you are not going to die in zis war! Five years and you've barely 'ad a scratch on you! You worry far too much—it's not good for your 'ealth."

_I'm not worrying about myself,_ America yelled in his head. _I've never worried about myself._ "You're right. I was just…y'know…worried about Matt. He's out there too, even if he's a dirty traitor. And, uh, Arthur, right? I mean…he wasn't a terrible guy. His government sucks but he was alright. I just needed to know if he, er, if _they_ could possibly…die." He stared at and kicked dirt with the toe of his boot, feeling heat rise into his cheeks.

Cocking his head, France looked appraisingly at the young adult. "Yes," he said softly. "Countries can die." America's head popped up, eyes wide with surprise and fear. After patting the terrified colony on the shoulder, France turned to walk away. "Amerique, I repeat, you really ought not worry. Angleterre 'as seen and survived more wars zan you would believe. If 'e 'as not died yet, 'e is not likely to meet 'is end now." Leaving those thoughts, he put his hands in his coat pockets to warm them and stepped away towards his tent, his wavy blonde hair twitching behind him.

America wondered why France said nothing about Canada, but was too embroiled in his own thoughts to make much of it. So it was true. England could die. He might be dead already, his body riddled with bullet holes somewhere out on one of the battlefields, or below the branches of the leafless trees, his eyes staring unseeingly into the gray sky. No, America did not believe England was dead. If that had happened, he was convinced that somehow he would feel it.

He had no way of knowing, but England was, at that very moment, thinking the same thoughts about him.

oOoOo

_Please review and tell me what you think! I do worry sometimes about my writing._


	13. Brotherhood

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Brotherhood

England slammed his back against a tree trunk, ragged breaths sending small puffs of mist into the cold air. The Americans were back _again_, and they had brought reinforcements. He had thought his troops were out of their firing range, but quickly realized his mistake when a bullet whizzed past his ear. _These colonists…they just won't give up,_ England thought, reloading his musket and signaling for his soldiers to pull back and give their opponents space. Five years had passed since the war began and, though the Americans were woefully under-equipped and usually poorly trained, they had stuck to their cause like a tick on the back of a deer. No amount of death, no loss of land, and no threats could sway these self-appointed patriots from their fight. On and on they battled, these boys who had grown up on crops raised in the fertile soil of the New World and who had become tanned and hardy.

Hearing a war whoop from behind himself, England darted to the next tree and flung himself behind it before the rebels could see him. This was what annoyed him the most about the Americans: they didn't fight fair. They used guerilla tactics, attacking when the British soldiers were asleep, using ambush tactics, and sabotaging camps. This warfare was cowardly and, in England's opinion, downright unmanly. He could not, however, deny that it was working. At the beginning of 1780, Great Britain had won some important battles, but then the colonists (with the aid of the damned French) pushed them right back over the humid summer. Drenched with sweat and misery, England had beat his fists against a fallen log, earning himself splinters and a new scar for his troubles.

It was nearing Christmas now and he bitterly wished he was back at home, warm near the fire instead of standing ankle-deep in snow in a godforsaken forest in South Carolina, alternating between being fired upon and worrying about being fired upon. A patch of blue passed by England's hiding place and he tensed, but the young soldier didn't see him. As usual, though he denied it to himself, he squinted at the lad and felt full of relief when he saw that the soldier's hair was brown, not blonde, and his face was entirely the wrong shape. It wasn't his colony, his little brother, his Alfred. Many times he'd thought about just what he would do if he ever _did_ come into combat with America and he had decided that he would have to shoot him, of course. That was the only right thing to do. Without their soul, the united colonists would surely give up the struggle. _No hesitation, old boy_, England thought, though his hands shook as he raised his gun, aimed at the soldier's back, and fired. The man dropped and England suddenly realized that his troops had already retreated, leaving him alone. He had been so caught up in his mind that he hadn't realized what was happening. Hearing angry, wounded shouts from American soldiers at the sight of their newly fallen comrade, England saw that he'd put himself in a very bad position. If he ran, he'd be seen and shot. If he stayed where he was, they would find him and kill him on the spot.

_Thump, thump, thump._ The Brit's heart pounded in his chest and he tensed himself for a desperate sprint…but it was too late. Several underdressed American soldiers rounded the tree behind which he hid, and started to yell. "HEY! WE'VE GOT ONE! OVER HERE!" One tall man pulled him to his feet and shoved him out into the open. "Dobber, check Davis and see if he's breathing. Stavish, get the captain. And you," he said, glaring at the prisoner. "don't move." So they weren't going to execute him on the spot. Footsteps sounded all around, but England kept his eyes trained on his primary captor, who had a scruffy black beard and prominent eyebrows. Apparently someone checked on the man England had shot, because a voice called out "He's gone."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, England registered that he should feel remorse for the life that he'd just taken, but there had been so much death in the past few years that he couldn't squeeze out the emotion. The rebels surrounding him, though, found plenty of emotion inside and hurled insults at their prisoner, some even going so far as to hit him with the butts of their guns, forcing him on his knees. England took the blows in stride. There was no use in getting angry about it; from the looks of it, he was very shortly going to be badly injured or killed. Death. He'd faced death countless times and couldn't truthfully say it had bothered him. The _idea _still didn't unduly perturb him, but the fact that it would be perpetrated at the hands of Americans was unbearable.

The situation became even worse when a familiar voice rang through the trees behind where England kneeled. "Is it true? Davis is dead?" America's voice had deepened slightly, but his footsteps were as quick and light as ever. "Who did it? Where is he?"

England's heart dropped into his boots and his stomach turned at the sound of the familiar voice that, for the past five years, he'd only heard in his dreams. A rough hand spun him around and, before he could prepare himself, he found himself looking straight at his former colony. Immediately the color drained from America's face and his eyes widened in recognition. He took a step back and nearly dropped his gun in surprise. England drank in the sight of him, five years' worth of worry clenching and releasing with every detail he could absorb. The former colony's hair had gotten a little longer from lack of upkeep and his hands were calloused. His uniform was miserably lacking; he was surely freezing in this December chill. His shoes were full of holes, his arms were scratched and a little bloody, and his face looked thin, but he was here and he was alive and he was reasonably healthy. And he was very possibly going to shoot him. "Captain?" One of the soldiers spoke up, surprised by the given response.

"Y-yes, sorry," America said hoarsely, all the confidence gone from his words. "um, right. Kill him." England's jaw dropped and he stared, horrified and in complete disbelief of what he'd just heard. America didn't make eye contact with him, but looked like he was deep in thought. As his men moved in for the kill, he stopped them. "No, wait, stop. Let me deal with him." The others looked at him somewhat dubiously, but he waved them away. "You guys go back to camp. I don't want you to see this. Davis was a close friend of mine." One by one, nodding in understanding, the rebels picked up their weapons and left. America calmly loaded his gun, looking away from his captive the whole time. Once they were alone, he spoke. "I really did like Davis. He was a good man. He has a fiancé waiting for him back at home. I'm going to have to go tell her what happened."

England stood completely still, barely daring to breathe. He had no idea what to do or what America was thinking. The sound of America's rifle cocking into place shook him into action. "America, I…"

America cut him off. "Stop. Don't talk." He walked towards his mentor, who closed his eyes expecting death to come at any moment. It didn't. Instead, England felt something being shoved into his hands. He opened his eyes to see his own gun before him and America's haunted face in front of his own. "England," he whispered brokenly, "you have to be more careful."

This was so contrary to what England was expecting that he didn't know quite what to say. "Pardon?"

"You could have been killed if you'd fallen into the hands of any other squadron; you have to be more careful! Don't be an idiot! Get out of the front lines!" America was yelling now, cheeks flaming and fists clenched. His eyes were angry and full of fear that, England realized, was for him. He was worried that England was going to be killed. America wasn't going to shoot him. America was saving him.

"America…" England's heart swelled with the memories of their fond brotherhood and he instinctively reached out a hand to touch the other man's face.

America closed his eyes for a moment, then knocked England's hand away. "Get the hell out of here. Now."

"What? L-listen, let's-"

"GO!" America shoved him away.

England nodded, biting back words, and ran as fast as he could away from his colony. Behind him, a shot sounded and a tree far to the left exploded into splinters. When he looked back, America was still watching him.

oOoOo

The soldiers in Captain Jones' group thought it wise not to say anything when the blonde man returned, grim-faced and bearing the body of the fallen Davis. They'd all heard the faint shot and figured that, however and for whatever reason Jones had for doing it, he had personally killed the errant British infantryman. Unsuccessfully pretending to be preoccupied with their own business, they watched him gently lay the corpse down outside of camp, then shut himself alone in his tent, something unheard of for the usually boisterous, sociable man. Whoever that Brit was, he had upset their leader, who had fought for five years with unfailing enthusiasm. All of the men went quietly about their usual routine, except for Davis' bunkmate and best friend from home, who sat by the dead man's side and sobbed silently.

oOoOo

France traveled many miles to catch word of the movements of the Canadian troops in the south, an activity that most of the American villagers looked down upon as suspicious. Once he finally heard that they were stationed some three hundred miles off the coast of Georgia, he bought a horse and rode as fast as he dared to where he had been told they were located. Lieutenant Williams was said to be the leader of a large group of Canadian soldiers, but he was quiet and few outsiders had seen him. France tied his horse about a mile away from the camp and then crept around the outskirts of the temporary settlement. Hours of silence and vigilance rewarded him with the knowledge of where the Canadian uniforms were washed on campsite. It was no easy trick to nick one approximately his own size, but he did and then vanished into the forest.

At the sound of approaching horse hooves, the sentries on the edge of the Canadian encampment sprang to their feet and gripped their muskets more tightly. "Who goes there, eh?"

France appeared, clad in the stolen uniform, looking frightened. "I'm 'ere to see Lieutenant Williams; it's urgent."

"Lieutenant Williams?" The lead sentry was skeptical. Williams didn't have visitors. "What for, eh?"

"Terrible news from ze North! Ze Americans 'ave completely destroyed our 'oldings in Albany. I've come to consult wiz ze Lieutenant, now let me zrough."

The guards looked at each other and frowned. "I'm sorry to have to say this, but you sound very French to us. How can we be sure you are who you say you are?"

France thought fast. "My family immigrated recently from France. It was a…" He swallowed hard and gritted his teeth. "terrible place. I know I still 'ave ze accent. I'm, er, sorry."

Nodding slightly, one of the guards pulled the other aside. They chatted quietly for a moment, then waved France through. "Leave your horse here, we'll take care of her." France dismounted and passed them the reins, thanking them profusely and apologizing for the trouble in the most Canadian way he could think of. They took the reins and led the horse away, agreeing that he was "a most agreeable sort of person."

Having passed the initial test, France slipped through the camp as unobtrusively as possible, only stopping to ask someone where he could find Lieutenant Williams. The man looked up from a map and pointed to a large tent in the middle of the campground. No one approached the Frenchman as he picked his way to the tent flap, so he swung it open without bothering to announce his presence. Three men were sitting inside, two who appeared to be high-ranking officers, and Canada, who looked exhausted and miserable. He turned his head tiredly at France's entrance, then gasped and stood up. "F-Francis!"

Interrupted in the middle of a sentence, one of the other officers also stood up. "Friend of yours, Williams?"

"I, oh, um," Canada quavered, paling. He turned to see France nod his head in a small motion. "Yes, this is a friend. W-would you excuse us?"

"What? We're not even halfway finished with our debriefing."

"P-please?"

The men grumbled a while longer, but eventually stood and left the tent, casting a dubious look over their shoulders. Williams was known to be mild and a little strange, but this was unusual even for him. Who was this new guy? Whatever. France waited until they were out of sight to turn back to Canada, who hadn't moved a bit and was still staring at him with wide eyes and tight lips. France waited for him to say something, but he didn't, so he took it upon himself to break the ice. "_Bonjour, mon petit…_" he purred, reaching out his hand to take Canada's.

Canada, however, smacked it away. "What are you doing here?"

"_Moi_? I'm 'ere to see you, of course." France frowned playfully, perplexed by Canada's lack of joy at his appearance.

The shorter blonde man looked more frazzled than ever. "O-okay, well, you've seen me."

"…and…'ow are you?"

"Fine."

"Zat's good." Silence. This was uncomfortable. "Listen, Matthieu, I know zat you 'ave been a little upset wiz me lately…"

Canada's eyes narrowed. "A little? Francis, I, god, you didn't come see me for YEARS! This is the first time I've seen you since I was A BOY. I felt bad for Alfred when England abandoned him, thought he was a proper scumbag, didn't think you'd go and do THE EXACT SAME THING to me! What is this? Did you and England think it would be fun to just play around with the new countries for sport? Is this your game?"

"Gehh…" France didn't know what to say. Canada had never raised his voice at him before. It was frightening and a little arousing.

Ignoring the useless interjection, Canada stormed around the tent, full of steam. He'd bottled these feelings up for years and it felt wonderful to blow them all out at once. Sometimes he really, really hated being such a quiet person. He couldn't help it; it was his natural state. Shouting felt good, though, like he was forcing someone to recognize his opinions and feelings. Maybe this was why America was so loud. "Not only do you NOT come back to see me, no, you GIVE ME AWAY TO ENGLAND! Then you don't even tell me! I HAD TO HEAR IT FROM SPAIN! Do you have any idea how much that hurts? Now you come into my tent when I'm in the middle of a WAR and act like this never happened? Speaking of wars, why are you fighting for Alfred? YOU DIDN'T FIGHT FOR ME! Alfred is a loudmouthed, pig-headed, attention hog but somehow everyone wants him. Maybe if I was obnoxious people would want me, too. Maybe you'd have fought for me like you're fighting for him."

France opened his mouth. "Ma—"

"I AM TALKING. DO NOT SPEAK."

"Oui."

Problem was, Canada had run out of steam and really had nothing more to say. He stomped around the tent a little bit more, then waved his hand awkwardly at France. "Alright. I'm, um…I'm done."

Using the action of smoothing his hair as a distraction, France ordered his thoughts. America had said Canada was angry, but _this_ was unexpected. "First zing you need to understand, Matthieu, is zat I _did_ fight for you. I fought very 'ard. But I lost. You don't understand what it's like to fight Angleterre; 'e's a monster."

"Alfred's fighting him."

France sighed. "Amerique is just somezing different all togezzer. 'E is relentless, 'e will not take no for an answer, 'e demands respect for 'is dreams because 'e is willing to fight for zem. But zat does not mean zat 'e is in any way better than you." He walked closer to Canada, very serious. "You are kind, you are patient, you are soft wiz ozzers and softer wiz animals. You are quiet, but strong like iron. You are a peacemaker and a realist. It was wrong of me to leave you for so long. I missed you every day." Hesitantly, which was strange for France, he reached out his hand and brushed his former colony's hair behind his ears.

Canada's eyes filled with tears. "Th-then why…?"

"I 'ad to. Remember? I used to tell you zat we weren't brozzers. But you didn't really believe me. I 'ad to prove to you zat you could grow up all on your own, wizzout relying on me or anyone else except your true brozzer, Amerique"

"So you just left me alone?"

France shook his head vigorously. "_Non, cherie, non_, never alone! I was always zere, watching from a distance. I'd never 'ave let anyzing 'appen to you. Never. Neither would Amerique. I knew zat. I always knew zat."

Tears slid down Canada's cheeks and he sniffed. "I just…I just wish you had told me. I thought you'd forgotten about me." France shook his head again and Canada allowed himself to be pulled into his arms. "I also wish you hadn't lost to England."

"_Non_, see, zat's a good zing!" France laughed, pushed Canada back and looked at him at arms length.

Canada frowned, scrubbing tears out of his eyes. "How is that good?"

"Because," France said softly, a gentle smile warming his expression, "If you were my colony I wouldn't be able to do zis." Taking Canada's chin in his hand, he tilted it slightly up and pressed a light, chaste kiss on his lips. "Zere are international laws against country-colony romantic contact, or somezing like zat," he finished light-heartedly.

Blood seeped into the Canadian's face until he could feel his pulse in his own head. His heart beat erratically and he felt faint. "E-eh?"

"Ah, but you are cute when you are so flustered! Everyzing is about love, _mon cherie_! Everyzing! _You_ are fighting because you did not zink zat I cared about _you_ and _Amerique_ is fighting because 'e does not zink zat Angleterre cares about _'im_, and _Angleterre _is fighting, ironically, because he _does_ care about Amerique and it's all a big mess. And to tie it all up, you care about Amerique, no?"

The blush hadn't receded and Canada wasn't sure if he could form reasonable sentences yet and so continued to stare at the floor. "Er, yes, of course…he's my twin, right?"

"Right. And now you know zat I _do _care about you. And you care about Amerique. So why are you fighting?"

Canada raised his head and laughed a little. "I guess I don't really have a reason, eh?"

France tweaked his cheek. "Zat's right."

"Only one thing…" Canada sat down on a stump conveniently located in the middle of his tent. "You said that Alfred cares about England. You mean in a family way, right? 'Cause he told me that he feels the exact same way about England that he does about me; I asked him."

"_Tch,_ what a liar," France responded, puffing out his cheeks. "'e's been running in circles like a dog chasing 'is tail ever since 'e 'eard zat Angleterre 'ad personally joined ze war."

"I knew it!" Canada hissed, snapping his fingers. "I knew he wasn't telling the truth! But wait, what about England? You said…does he…feel the same way about Alfred?" That would explain a lot of things.

France made a face. "It's not zat easy. See, Angleterre is ze kind of person who—" He never got to finish the sentence because the two Canadian sentries from before burst into the tent yelling about how they'd found a French uniform out in the woods and figured it must have come from the suspicious French man from earlier. When they saw him they tried to tackle him, but he was having none of it and evaded them before sprinting out the door, stripping off his borrowed Canadian uniform along the way. He ended up running out of the camp completely naked, followed by a string of soldiers who were shooting at him while trying not to actually look at his bare buttocks, which made their aim dreadful. Behind the whole line was Canada, who vainly yelled for everyone to stop.

It wasn't until an hour later, after he'd calmed the camp down, that Canada remembered what he and France were talking about before they were interrupted. _I should talk to Alfred about this_, he thought, throwing his gun on the ground happily. _I'm done with that thing. At least for now._

oOoOo

_Ahhh we're close to the end. One or two more chapters? _

_I don't think France was actually admitting romantic, exclusive love to Canada. That's not his style. I think he was including him in his harem of world love. But I also don't think Canada understood that. Probably led to some misunderstandings between he and France later down the road._


	14. Severance

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Severance

Canada did not have nearly the same amount of trouble finding America as France had encountered when trying to find _him_. News had spread of the brash, courageous young man and Captain Jones had become a local legend in the south of Virginia and north of North Carolina. Anyone in that area knew his plans and whereabouts, which surely had to be inconvenient to him and his squadron. Canada, however, found the circumstances very fortuitous and located his twin brother in a short amount of time.

Unlike France, he was not good at pretending to be part of a culture of which he was not actually a part. After debating the idea with himself for a while, he decided that the best course of action would be to use a little stealth. Rumor was that the American soldiers were fond of both women and ale and thus spent evenings in taverns and pubs whenever possible. Canada donned some civilian clothing and hid out in a small pub that was near the grounds where the Americans were supposed to stop for camp that night. As predicted, a horde of tired soldiers filled the eatery half an hour after dusk had fallen and Canada had only to look about a few times before he found his target. America looked rundown and hungry (THAT was to be expected,) but otherwise in excellent spirits. He bought a round of drinks for his men and then settled himself in a corner where he could nap unobtrusively while still looking social.

Canada sidled up to him, surprised at how few people questioned his presence. When he was finally beside his brother, he looked over to see the young captain slumped against the wall, eyes closed, and breathing heavy. It seemed such a shame to wake him now…but this had to be done. "Alfred," he whispered, casting a nervous glance around the room to make sure he wasn't arousing suspicion. "Hey, Alfred, wake up." When he received no response, he prodded the sleeping figure a bit. "Alfred, wake up, you lump!"

Blue eyes fluttered open, blinked twice, focused on the source of the disturbance, blinked again, and widened. "Matt?" Alfred immediately sat up and turned to face his brother. "What the…what are you doing here?" His voice started out loud, but was hushed so the nearby troops wouldn't investigate. Anger tinted the words; he hadn't forgotten Canada's alliance with England.

"I need to talk to you," Canada replied, sensing America's displeasure. "I figured I would find you here."

American's face remained stony as he stared at the other man. "Well, you found me, but I'm not sure what you could have to say that I want to hear."

Canada sighed. "Listen, Alfred…I know that you're upset that I sided with England. If I were you, I'd be upset too. It was a bad decision on my part and…well, I haven't been a very good brother, right?" There was no answer. "A-anyway, I talked with…some people and I've decided to stop fighting."

The hostility fell from America's face immediately and Canada breathed an internal sigh of relief. America may have many flaws, but holding grudges against his brother had never been one of them. "Really?"

"Yeah. I…I have to admit something to you. I…I was jealous of you. I was really upset when Francis surrendered me to England and—and then when he started fighting for _you_ I felt…gosh, abandoned, I guess." Canada chuckled to himself in embarrassment at admitting these things to someone as carefree as America. "Everyone was fighting for you and I guess I just got so jealous I…snapped." He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

Instead of the expected annoyance, America's face was a mash of exhaustion, relief, and understanding. "Let's go outside," he said, standing up and draining his mug of ale.

On the way out, the American soldiers noticed the departure of their leader. One of the men asked loudly, "Hey, Jones, where are you goin'?"

"Look, Captain has himself a girlfriend!" Someone else called this out and all the soldiers started whistling and hooting.

Canada immediately turned red and looked at the floor. The soldiers laughed. "Come on, introduce her to us!"

America turned to face the room, reached out an arm, wrapped it around Canada's waist, pulled him close, and grinned. "_His_ name is Matthew." The men fell completely silent. One dropped his tankard, splashing ale all over his bench-mate. "And he's my brother. Now all of you go back to camp; your brains are fogged with drink." Still wearing a cocky smile, he sauntered out the door, ignoring the soldiers' protestations. His smirk dropped once he was outside.

"D-do I really look like a girl?" Canada looked down at himself, mortified.

"No way," America replied, walking away from the building. "they were just drunk. Don't think about it."

Canada sighed, not convinced. "Alright."

"You COULD use a haircut, thought," America teased, halting. "Listen, I just wanted to tell you that…that I was jealous too."

"Of who?"

"Of you, dummy. Remember? Arthur just left and didn't come back and then suddenly I found out that he'd taken you as his new colony. That killed me! I felt totally replaced." He put his hands in his pockets casually, shrugging away the seriousness of his feelings. "I dunno, I'm totally over it now."

"What?" Canada was shocked. "I had no idea…"

A tanned hand waved away the topic. "Doesn't matter anymore. You're my brother, Matt. You'll always be my brother. Even if you're shooting at me," he added wryly. "Just because France lost you to Arthur doesn't mean he doesn't want to be your brother."

Almost grimacing, Canada shot a furtive look at his brother's face. "That's the best part, Alfred, he _doesn't _want to be my brother and I…don't want him to, either."

"What does that mean?"

"I mean…Alfred, I think I'm in love with Francis."

America stared at his twin. "What?"

"A-and I think he might feel, well, sort of the same about me."

"_What?_"

"I mean, I'm certainly not going to pursue anything, at least not for a long time, but it really made me feel—"

"Matt," America burst out, eyes wide. "France is your big brother! That's totally gross, you, you just can't _do_ that."

Such a negative reaction tempered Canada's growing enthusiasm, but didn't unduly surprise him. "No, he's _not_. He explained it to me when I was young. We're not like humans, Alfred, we don't have blood relations. Francis helped raise, but he's still a country just like any other."

"What about us, then?" America demanded, somewhat wounded.

"We're different, we share basic origins and native peoples, I don't really know how to explain it. But you and Francis are not the same to me. You're my brother and Francis…is just Francis." Canada ploughed on ahead, hurrying to make the point that came next. "Francis isn't my brother and England isn't yours."

As if his twin's words were a physical blow, America took a step back. "Leave Arthur out of this," he muttered, his voice low.

"Now, you need to hear it," Canada replied fiercely. "I know why you're doing this, fighting this war. I get it now."

"You always knew why I started the Revolution," America shot back angrily. "Arthur was taxing the life out of my people and it wasn't fair.

"Would you swear that's the only reason why?"

America threw up his hands. "Of course it is, I…" his voice gained a pleading edge. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Canada also softened his voice and exhaled, releasing the tension in his shoulders. "I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to free you from the cage you've put yourself in. England isn't your brother."

"So what?"

"So you don't have to restrict your relationship with him," he explained slowly. _And I want to know that I'm not the only one. I want to know that there's nothing wrong with me. It's okay for me to feel these feelings for Francis_. "so it's okay to admit that you're in love with him."

One could almost see America's heart skip a beat as the blood drained from his face and then surged back threefold. He laughed once, without mirth, covering his mouth with his hand and looking away. "Look, I don't know what weirdness is going on between you and France, but I am _not_ in love with Arthur. That's disgusting."

That hurt. "It is _not_ disgusting and it is _not _weirdness. It's normal." Canada balled his fists. "I've seen the way you look at England. I saw the pictures you drew. You treasure that stupid musket he gave you, yet you used it to blow his favorite teacups to bits after he left you."

"I needed the target practice!"

Canada refused to back down, his own worries and needs projecting into his voice. "You hated that suit he brought you and never wear it, but you still keep it pressed and in your memorabilia trunk."

"That's for in case I ever have to dress like a stuck-up old fogey!"

"You know those wooden soldiers he carved and painted for you? I know you still have them. You told him you threw them away, but I find them random places around the house. You still like to look at them, but you hide them when he or I come to visit."

America had started to sweat and he picked at his army shirt uncomfortably. "God, you're a snoop."

"Taxes are part of your reasoning for this war, yes, but the other part is that you don't want him to see you as a little boy anymore. You want to be his equal, not his little brother." _Please, Alfred, tell me that I'm right. Tell me so I know you're like me and I'm not a freak. _

"Anyone would want that," America mumbled, his face and palms burning. Canada knew too much; he was far more observant than America had ever dreamed he'd be.

The look on his brother's face told Canada that he was right, but he was determined to squeeze the truth out of him. Drunk on success, he continued to push. _Please. _"You want it for a different reason. Not for political power, not for riches, but just to prove to him that you're a man worthy of respect and autonomy. He's always had your love, but you know that you have to earn his, so you fight because all he's ever known is the art of war and it's the only way you know to get through to him. I'm right, aren't I?" _Don't let me be alone in this mattern._

"No," America whimpered, putting his head in his hands. "That's not true."

"Tell me the truth!" _Just say it! _

America shook his head. "I can't. It's not true."

"Alfred, no one on this entire earth loves you more than I do. We're brothers; we're twins. You can tell me anything, as long as it's the truth." Still, his brother said nothing, just turned his back. Canada's pleas grew in intensity. "Please, Al! I just need to know!" _You've always been there with me in every circumstance. Please don't leave me alone in this one. _A strange sound came from America, something Canada hadn't heard since they were boys. Tentatively he stepped towards his brother's back and put a hand on his shoulder. "Alfred?"

America turned his head and Canada knew he had broken. Tear trails, silvery in the moonlight, streaked down his face. Without thinking, Canada opened his arms and pulled his brother into them. America leaned into them, thankful that no one from his squadron was here to see him in his loss of traditional masculinity. He allowed himself to be comforted for a few moments, then pulled away and wiped his face vigorously. "Don't tell Arthur," he pleaded.

Canada nodded solemnly and watched his brother jog away towards his camp. Once he was out of sight, the Lieutenant crumpled on the ground in a heap of gratitude and relief. He wasn't crazy. He wasn't alone. Like always, his twin had been right there with him.

_Thank you, brother._

oOoOo

October had always been one of England's favorite months, if for no other reason than that he felt his magic flowing powerfully at this time of year. On a cloudy evening that promised a storm, he would have liked nothing better than to whip up a few spells and feel the power leap from his hands like the lightning from the clouds. This evening, however, wasn't an evening for magic. Even had he had his tools and books with him, he didn't have the strength to summon a grasshopper, let alone anything useful. 1781 was drawing to a close in the most disappointing of ways. His troops had chased the Americans out of Ninety-Six and Eutaw in South Carolina, but had been rebuffed in Fort Granby and Cowpens in South Carolina, and Augusta in Georgia. The British had won the battle at Guilford Courthouse in North Carolina, but at a steep cost in terms of casualties and the wounded.

Now he was tired, just tired. Six years of war was physically exhausting. Six years of battling his beloved colony was emotionally and mentally exhausting. Sometimes he thought that he ought to feel proud that America was so smart, but most of the time he was just dismal about it. A raindrop fell on his head and he looked up at the sky. So it was starting now, eh? Figures. A few more raindrops fell, then a sprinkle, then the sky opened up and dumped its contents over England as he sprinted for cover. His tent wasn't completely waterproof, but it was better than the crap supplies that the American armies had. Idiots. Tough idiots, though, to have survived six years with little to nothing.

Something caught England's eye and he stuck his head out of his tent to see a tendril of smoke in the distance, like someone had been using a well-contained fire that was suddenly extinguished by the rain. He twisted his head around, looking for one of his soldiers that he could question. "You, there, Robinson, are there any British camps around here?"

The soldier turned and squinted, thinking. "No, sir, I don't believe there are. Or, at least, there aren't supposed to be. Are you wondering about that smoke over there?"

"Indeed I am."

"Shall we send a sentry out to have a look?"

Something made England think twice about that. "No," he finally answered, "I think I'll go myself. You men have been working doubly this week and I'd fancy a walk."

"You do know it's raining, right, sir?"

_Dimwit._ "Yes, I am perfectly aware of that, thank you."

"Very well, sir." The soldier continued with his task after a weird look at his commander.

England pulled on his uniform coat, grabbed his gun, and headed out in the rain towards the source of the smoke. About a mile and a quarter away from his own campsite, he found an empty field where crops undoubtedly grew before the war scarred the ground. The smoke over the treetops had ceased and he didn't know in which direction he should go. He walked to the middle of the field, took a look around, and was turning to go back to his tent when a shout rang out across the plain. "REDCOATS!"

The accent was that of the colonists and England's heart froze. Not again. He wouldn't be spared a second time. The sounds of men scrambling through the trees sent him running as fast as his legs would let him in the direction in which he came until a voice stopped him. "England!"

England stopped, gasping at the sound of that voice. Surely not. Could he be so unlucky as to encounter him a second time in one war? He turned slowly and knew the answer immediately. Yes, yes he could be just that unfortunate. America stood before him, fifteen or so men in a line ten feet behind him, and a gun clutched in his hand. He was soaked, as was England himself, and water dripped from his torn blue coat. "America," the wary Englishman mumbled, wondering what new could possibly happen to surprise him this time.

The taller blonde man walked toward him, away from the line of soldiers at his back. "It's done, England. Cornwallis surrendered a few days ago in Virginia. It's all over."

_WHAT? _Rumors had flown but he hadn't believed them. The fact that the Cornwallis surrender was news to him, combined with his former colony's calm about it enraged England. "No!" He raised his gun, sweeping his wet hair out of his eyes. "It can't be!" _Surely not! Britain would never surrender!_ "You're lying!"

Surprised by England's aggression, America raised his gun as well, bracing himself in the mud. The rain was falling down in thick sheets, partially obscuring his view. This was it. All his efforts had sprang to fruition, he'd finally understood his feelings, and there was nothing between he and his dream of equality except England himself. He had to make his former mentor understand. "All I want is my freedom," he called, eye to his musket's scope. The words he'd been practicing ever since his talk with Canada bubbled to his lips and spilled forth, full of truth and pain. "I'm no longer a child, nor your little brother. From now on, consider me independent!"

At that very moment, with a gun barrel in front, no friends behind, endless water from above, and the smell of damp earth rising from the ground below, England's heart broke. His life had always been about war. He'd fought so many countries so many times…blood drenched his history and his dreams at night. Other nations were nothing more than political items whose friendships were constantly bartered and traded for one's own safety. Until he saw a tiny blonde head darting through sunlit fields in a new world he knew nothing about…

With a roar, he charged forward, bayonet aiming at America's heart. America parried as expected, and England's bayonet struck the wooden side of his musket, gouging a deep slice into the gun's body and sending it flying out of America's grasp. It landed in a puddle a few feet away. England yelled at his former little brother, screamed at him. "I won't allow it! You idiot! Why can't you follow anything through to the end?" Calling for the Brit's death, the line of American troops behind the weaponless captain aimed their firearms, but were quelled when the captain himself flung out his hand to stop them. America stared at the rifle pointed at his head, ashamed of himself for being unsure of what would happen next and also vexed that his prized musket had been scratched. England panted before him, teeth bared. Raindrops dripping off his eyelashes, America raised his gaze to meet England's.

Blue eyes met green. England felt his breath constrict as the familiarity of those irises washed over him like salt water. He remembered the first time they'd stared at him from within a clump of bushes, two pieces of sky captured in one boy's face. He thought he'd surely lost the boy to France's food, but had been shocked when America chose _him_ instead, just because he was worried about him. They had built a house together. He remembered the first time America had told him he loved him, draped in a towel and fresh from a bath. Picking apples, chasing fireflies, swimming in the pond. He remembered coming back and finding that America had grown tall and strong, strong enough to pull his big brother from the water when he fell through the ice on the pond. He remembered each and every picture he'd found on the walls of his room.

America got excited about coffee. America liked to tease England until he lost patience. He hated goodbyes. He was an idealist. He always had room for dessert. He loved to ride horses. England remembered giving him his first pinto, a magnificent beast with big, soft eyes. He'd had the saddle monogrammed. He remembered when America stopped crying and turned to goofy grins to hide his insecurities.

Most of all, he remembered the feel of America's tiny hand slipping into his own after a long golden day of playing outside. _Let's go home_, he'd said. Home. Alfred's face. Alfred's smile. Alfred had become home somewhere in the middle of all of this and England hadn't even realized it until now.

The gun lowered from America's face and he breathed relief, but searched England's expression for a hint as to why he didn't fire. England visibly deflated before him, letting his sodden hair fall into his face and not bothering to wipe it away. "There's no way I can shoot you. I can't." The musket fell to the ground and splashed in the water, abandoned by its owner, who dropped to his knees in the mud. "Why? Dammit! Why?" He covered his face with his hands and let flow the tears he'd held in for years. One by one, they dripped through his fingers like so many of his own soldiers' blood had during the war. He couldn't bear to look up at the man standing before him. His former colony's very presence seared his soul like white-hot iron. America was the only thing he had ever loved; England knew that now, but it was too little and too late. "It's not fair," he whispered.

America looked down at his former mentor, wanting release from the pain in his own chest but unable to cry. "You know why," he replied sadly. Watching England cry was torture and he was the one who had caused the suffering. He wanted to kneel down, hold England, tell him that it was alright, that he was doing this for a reason, that he loved him and always had. That, however, would have to wait for a few more centuries. Instead, he took a couple steps back and tore his eyes away from the weeping Brit, who looked oddly diminished and fragile in this condition. Feeling too minute for his own large, muscular body, America sought out his damaged gun and strapped it to his back tenderly. "What happened?" he murmured, remembering how heavy the gun used to feel to his child self and how small the world seemed now. "You used to be so big."

England heard the movement and had a sudden fantasy that America was coming for him, coming to take his hand like he used to and lead him away to someplace safe and warm.

_Let's go home_.

It didn't happen. Leaving his own soul behind, America ordered his troops back to camp and walked away. Back in the mud, England cried himself delirious and slipped into a depression that lasted a long time.

oOoOo

Two years later, the Treaty of Paris was signed between delegates from the newly established United States of America and the Kingdom of Great Britain. America showed up to the signing, hoping to glimpse England for the first time in years, but was told that the former commander didn't leave his country much anymore.

Years passed. America grew stronger and smarter. He quarreled with Canada in 1812, then promptly forgot about it. His country grew bigger, swelling with new lands and immigrants from all nations. He congratulated Canada when the quiet twin announced that he had asked England politely for independence and was granted it without a struggle. He studied, invented, worked hard, and planned for the future, but he never forgot where he came from or who brought him to where he was. His love for England laid dormant, like a seedling hunkering down to survive a long winter.

Meanwhile, France observed both the North American twins' successes and his British neighbor's despondency, and, as he did best, he plotted.

oOoOo

_Geez. So much sad! Please review and make my day!_

_One chapter left!_


	15. Dawning of Modernity

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Dawning of Modernity

As clear as he'd made it that he absolutely despised the French nation and would hence and forevermore, England wasn't astonished when he received an invite in the mail from France, asking him to a casual dinner party "for conciliatory purposes." Over a hundred years had passed since the end of the Revolutionary War and nearby countries were beginning to tire of the cold shoulder the rainy country had turned to the world. England himself had recently begun to feel a bit thawed out, like spring returning after the last snow. Every year since the signing of the Treaty of Paris, a package from America had arrived containing small edibles and trinkets from the expanding country. A letter was always included in the package and England had kept every single one, though he had never read them. He would run his finger over the ink lines of his name in America's handwriting, which got better every year, then tuck it away in a drawer and forget about it until the next time. He never ate anything from the presents, not even the expensive culinary delights, but he couldn't find it in himself to throw away the trinkets. Unable to part with them yet unwilling to stare at them everyday, he subjected them to the same drawer in which the unread letters were stored.

Though he was still very hurt and a bit angry, England was touched in some deep place inside by the fact that, without fail, America tried to reach out to him and reconnect. Even after more than a hundred years of being ignored, America was still making the effort. The young country's name was being passed around in whispers among the powers of the world; England couldn't help but hear them. His reputation was spreading: America, the land of opportunity and freedom. Like his personality had always been, his young government was open and full of ideals.

England had begun to feel old. As a fresh age dawned, he knew that his time of conquest and mass expansion was over. His body was barely twenty-two, but he began feeling the urge to settle down and take up some tamer, bloodless hobbies, like cross stitching or tea-set collecting. Bit by bit the world realized that the battle-thirsty young kingdom was dissolving and being replaced by a temperamental, eccentric Britain who felt himself to be twice his true age. Sometimes his bones ached for hours before he realized that he was only twenty-two and was imagining the pain. He had begun to get exasperated with himself when the letter from France arrived and, needing distraction, he accepted the invitation.

France was, of course, delighted and immediately prepared a list of edible delicacies for the party. For a brief moment, he considered asking his guests to bring a dish each to share, but then he remembered that only one of his guests had any sense of taste at all and so nixed the idea. The night before the party, he woke up in a sweat, suddenly aware of just how unpredictable England was. How would he react to the gathering? Would the whole idea backfire and make everything worse instead of better? _Ach, Angleterre,_ he thought, laying his arm across his brow. _The things I do for you._

oOoOo

England regretted his decision as soon as he stepped up to France's ornate front door. He could be happily at home right now, working on his new needlepoint picture of a friendly bunny. He _hated_ France; what on earth inspired him to accept an invitation to _come to his house_ and _eat his vile food?_ "Bonjour," France cooed, opening the door smoothly. "'ow simply wonderful to see you, Angleterre!" England grunted in response, but France pretended that it was a return pleasantry and ushered him into the house. "I 'ave been cooking for days; you would not believe it. I 'ave finally decided zat I am _so _good at ze culinary arts zat I should start a cooking school. What do you zink?"

"I don't give a damn what you do," England replied without any vinegar in his voice. "I certainly won't attend, though."

"_Merci Dieu,_" France breathed, pretending to wipe his brow in relief. "But you are such a spoilsport, Angleterre. Matthieu and Amerique zought it was a delightful idea." The pair had reached the doors of the dining room, but England stalled.

"So…you've been in contact with America?" England shuffled from foot to foot. "That nimrod. Er…how is he?"

France chuckled, reaching out to grasp the shining door handles and pushing the doors open. "Why don't you ask 'im yourself?"

Too late, England realized the trap into which he'd walked. He opened his mouth to protest, but was too slow and there before him were America and Canada, both sitting on the same side of a sumptuously-laid table. He hadn't had time to plan his composure and so he gaped like a fish, his mind stripped of all fruitful thought. America also appeared to be suffering a blankness of mind, so Canada took the liberty of speaking first. "Hello, England. I'm glad you decided to join us for dinner."

There was no response. France announced "I'll go get ze wine!" Turning his back to the twins, he muttered under his breath so only England could hear him. "Please, Angleterre, Amerique 'as been excited about zis for months."

"Fine." England cut his eyes to the Frenchman, a somber resignation settled in their depths. "I really do hate you, though."

"Ah, you never change, my friend," France groaned comically. "Sit, sit, I'll go fetch drinks."

Gathering all of his self-control, England entered the dining room and sat across from Canada, the less emotionally stimulating of the two other diners. "Well, how are the pair of you doing?" He asked, gripping his own knees tightly under the table for support. "Getting on well?"

Canada smiled gently. "I'm doing quite well, thanks," he replied. "I've been working on my government lately. There are a lot of changes going on in the world. How about you, Alfred?"

"O-oh, I'm doing great!" America grinned, his heart pounding beneath his tailored dark suit. "My economy is climbing, but I've been considering my religious beliefs lately. I'm not sure how I feel about that." To hide his awkwardness, he grabbed a cube of cheese and popped it into his mouth. After a few chews, he spit it back out in a napkin. "Gross!"

France entered the room at that moment, a tray of long-stemmed wine glasses in his hands. "You are supposed to eat zat wiz a fresh cracker and a draught of fine French wine, Amerique. 'ere, take a glass and try it again." America shook his head violently, refusing the cheese but accepting the drink. England, despite himself, snickered behind his fist. Seeing this, France beamed. His plan seemed to be working. "You wouldn't know good food itf you saw it," he guffawed.

Canada snickered a bit. "He _can't_ see it, I think that's part of the problem."

"What do you mean?" England asked, worried by the cryptic wording. He looked closer at Canada and then realized what had seemed different about him. "You got spectacles!"

"Yeah," Canada replied, touching them self-consciously. "I realized that I needed them a few years ago. America has them also, but he refuses to wear them."

America's face blotched red. "I don't need them. They're only for reading."

Sighing, Canada held up three fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"W-what?" America spluttered, and England began to feel that this scene was not unusual among the twins. "I answered it correctly last week; I don't need to answer it again."

Canada turned to England with a _help me_ look on his face. "Come now, Al—America," England said, not unkindly. "put your spectacles on and let's have a look." America balked, but finally drew the glasses out of his coat pocket and slipped them on with a grimace. France and Canada cheered, exclaiming how nice they looked and musing about how much better his vision must be with them on. England, however, didn't know what to say. His former colony looked so…mature in glasses. It really was a fantastic look for him.

"What do you think, Angleterre?" France asked.

England twitched, shuffling his legs under the table. "Me? Well, I…I think they look…they look fetching, I guess. Don't get me wrong, America, your face looks strange regardless, I just…I'm in favor of the spectacles. Normally they're unsightly, but I don't suppose I mind them so much on you…DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT, YOU FROG, EAT YOUR LAMB AND MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS!"

Amidst the hubbub, the corners of America's mouth curved upwards. He left his glasses on permanently after that.

oOoOo

Later that night, filled to the brim with éclairs and a little dizzy from the strong wine, America and Canada headed home. "I forgot to give him the invitation to my birthday party,' the southern twin lamented, finding the card in the pocket of his jacket.

"Don't worry about it," Canada replied, thinking back to the way England had snuck concerned glances at America when he thought no one was paying attention. "I feel like he'll show up this year."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, I do."

They walked on in companionable silence for a while. America looked over at his brother and asked that which had been bothering him. "You think he's forgiven me?"

"Who knows?" Canada said, shrugging. "He's hard to read."

"Oh."

"But it's a start, definitely."

America looked up at the dark sky and breathed deeply. The stars twinkled comfortingly, just like they had when he was a child sleeping in the grass, a teenager missing his big brother, and a young adult leaving his heart on a wet battlefield. He'd come a long way, but they were still the same. "I think we've grown up, Matt."

Canada smiled and put an arm over his twin's shoulder. "We're getting there."

oOoOo

The End

_oOoOo_

_Thanks so much for sticking with me, guys! I've really enjoyed this ride as I hope you have also! _

_If you feel so inclined, please check out my next fic when it comes out: __**Without Wings to Take Me Home**__. _

_Bye!_


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